UC-NRLF 


I  III  II  li  I  I  Hi  III 

B    M    1Q2    qS7 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


^  Noud. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  «  LOST  SIR  MASSINGBERD,"  &c. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 
1867. 


,^LUMNUS 


CARLYON'S    YEAR. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ON     THE      SANDS. 

"That  will  do,  Stephen,  thank  you.  You 
may  let  us  out  here.  A  charming  scene,  is  it 
not,  Richard?" 

The  speaker  was  a  young  lady  of  nineteen 


shore,  which  was,  moreover,  thickly  wooded  ; 
a  white  village  or  two,  from  one  of  which 
the  cart  had  just  arrived,  glimmered  througli 
the  trees ;  and  to  the  west  a  far-stretching 
promontory,  with  one  heetling  clift",  conclud- 
ed the  fair  scene — that  is,  so  far  as  the  land 
reached.     Upon  the  south  was  the  sea,  separated 


looking,  however,  not  older,  hut  far  wiser  than  i  from  them  by  no  bar  or  bound  of  any  sort,  and 


her  years.  A  thoughtful  face  by  nature,  and 
besides,  one  upon  which  some  sorrow  and  much 
care  for  others  had  set  their  marks.  The  hazel 
eyes,  large  and  tender,  were  confident,  without 
being  bold.  The  forehead,  from  which  the 
heavy  folds  of  bright  brown  hair  were  not  drawn 
back,  but  overflowed  it  from  under  her  summer 
hat  at  their  own  wild  will,  was  broad  and  low. 
The  form  tall  and  slender,  but  shapely ;  the 
voice  singularly  clear  and  sweet,  and  whose 
tones  were  such  as  seemed  to  give  assurance  of 
the  truth  they  utter.  She  was  certainly  speaking 
truth  now  when  she  said,  "A  charming  scene." 
The  persons  she  addressed  were  seated  with 
her  in  a  cart,  in  tlie  middle  of  one  of  tliose  bays 
upon  our  north-western  coast,  from  which  the 
sea  retires,  with  every  tide,  for  many  miles,  and 
leaves  it  a  level  waste  of  sand,  save  for  two  river- 
channels,  besides  several  smaller  streams,  ford- 
able  in  places,  but  always  running  swiftly. 
Some  islands,  oases  in  this  desert,  dotted  here 
and  there  at  no  great  distance,  yet  farther  than 
they  seemed,  showed  grandly  with  their  walls 
of  rock  and  crowns  of  foliage.  The  shores  of 
the  bay  itself,  miles  away  at  the  nearest  point, 
were  of  a  beauty  singularly  varied,  considering 
their  extent.  To  southward  a  range  of  round, 
green  hills  sloped  down  to  a  white  fringe  of 
coast,  on  which  a  tolerably  large  town  could  be 
distinctly  viewed,  with,  behind  it,  a  castle  on  a 


roaring  in  the  distance,  as  though  for  prey.  It 
was  this  which  formed  the  most  striking  feature 
in  the  picture,  and  indeed,  to  a  stranger  to  the 
position  —  as  was  one  of  the  three  individuals 
we  are  concerned  with — it  was  almost  terrible. 

"Well,  Agnes,"  observed  Richard  Crawford 
to  his  cousin,  to  whom  he  looked  junior  by  at 
least  twelve  months,  but  was  really  her  senior 
by  that  much;  "this  is  truly  grand.  I  could 
never  have  imagined  what  a  spectacle  '  Over 
Sands'  afforded,  if  I  had  not  thus  seen  it  with 
my  own  eyes.  It  is  certainly  tlie  very  place  for 
a  sketch.     Now,  jump,  and  J  will  catch  you." 

The  young  man  had  leaped  lightly  from  the 
back  of  the  cart  upon  the  brown,  firm  sand,  and 
now  held  out  both  his  arms,  that  his  cousin 
might  alight  in  s.afety. 

"  Thank  you,  Richard,  I  am  used  to  help  my- 
self out  of  this  sort  of  difficulty,"  replied  she, 
smiling;    "am  I  not,  Stephen?" 

"Yes,  miss,"  returned  the  driver,  respectful- 
ly, but  in  broad  north-country  accents  ;  "  this  is 
not  the  first  time  you  have  been  in  my  cart,  nor 
yet  the  second.  She's  as  active  as  any  deer  in 
his  lordship's  park  out  yonder,  that  I'll  answer 
for,  Mr.  Richard.  Lor  bless  you!  you  don't 
know  Miss  Agnes ;  but  then,  how  should  you, 
you  that  has  been  in  foreign  parts  so  long!" 

Richard  Crawford  had,  it  was  true  enough, 
been  for  many  years  in  a  far-distant  climate, 


hill,  which  marked  the  site  of  a  mucli  larger  ,  and  one  which  had  turned  his  handsome  features 
town.  Upon  the  spurs  of  these  hills  were  al-  I  to  the  hue  of  those  of  a  bronze  statue  ;  but  he 
most  everywhere  to  be  seen  a  cluster  of  grey  |  grew  of  a  more  dusky  red  than  evon  the  eastern 
dwellings,  and  from  the  valleys  thin  blue  smoke;    suns  had  made  him,  when  his  cousin,  touching 


the  district,  although  somewhat  un-come-at-able, 
was  so  fair  that  many  came  to  dwell  there,  es- 
pecially in  the   summer  ;    but   yet   it  was  not 


one  of  his  extended  arms  with  her  finger-tips 
only,  lightly  leaped  upon  the  sand.  She  took  no 
notice  of  his  evident  annoyance,  but  exclaimed 


densely  peopled.  Eastward,  these  signs  of  hab-  gayly,  "  Now,  Stephen,  the  chair  and  the  camj)- 
itation  were  more  rare,  and  the  hills  began  to 
rise  in  grandeur,  till,  in  the  north-east,  they  cul- 
minated to  mountains,  a  knot  of  which  towered 
in  the  extreme  distance  at  the  head  of  the  bay. 
Small  coves  and  inlets  indented  tl^e  northern  i  cousin.''     She  drew  out  from  the  cart  a  sort  of 


stool ;  then  go  your  ways,  and  good-hiek  to  your 
craam.  I  dare  say  Mr.  Richard  here  does  not 
know  what  a  '  craam'  is ;  so  great  is  the  igno- 
rance that  prevails  in  the  tropics.     See  here, 


ucrn  I  cot 

000 


CAELYON'S  YEAR. 


three-pronged,  bent  fork,  used  by  cockle-gather- 
ers for  getting  the  little  bivalve  out  of  the  sand, 
beneath  the  surface  of  which  it  lies  about  an 
inch.  "There!  that  is  the  true  Neptune's 
trident.  No  barren  sceptre,  but  one  upon  whose 
magic  movement,  thus" — she  deftly  tlirust  it 
into  tlie  sand,  where  two  small  eyelet  holes  an- 
nounced tlie  presence  of  the  fish,  and  whipped 
one  out — "  meat,  and  drink,  and  clothing  are 
evoked  for  many  a  poor  soul  in  these  ])arts. 
Why,  you  need  not  go  far  afield,  Steplicn,  since 
there  seem  to  be  cockles  here." 

"Nay,  miss,  there's  nobbut  but  one  or  two 
here  about,"  returned  the  man.  "  The  skeer* 
lies  far  away  out  yonder.  You'll  not  be  afraid 
to  bide  here  till  I  come  back  and  fetch  you?" 

"Certainly  not,  Stephen.  How  many  hours 
shall  we  have  to  spare,  think  you?" 

"Well,  with  this  light  south  wind  stirring, 
perhaps  not  four,  miss.  But  I  shall  ])ick  you 
up  long  before  that — just  as  usual,  you  know. 
A  deal  of  company  you  will  have  upon  Sands 
this  afternoon,  I  reckon,"  added  the  man,  as  he 
drove  off  to  the  cockle-ground;  "you  have 
brought  Mr.  Richard  out  on  quite  a  gala  day." 

The  scene  upon  the  wave -deserted  bay  was 
indeed  growing  quite  animated  ;  for,  in  addition 
to  many  carts,  such  as  that  in  which  they  had 
come,  the  owners  whereof  were  all  setting  to 
W'Ork  with  their  craams,  two  long  strings  of 
horsemen  and  wheeled  conveyances  were  begin- 
ning to  cross  from  either  side  of  the  bay,  making 
almost  to  the  place  where  the  two  were  stand- 
ing, sketch-books  in  hand  ;  each  band,  both  from 
tlie  east  and  west,  were  conducted  by  a  guide 
over  the  first  eau  or  river,  after  which  their 
course  lay  plain  enough  across  certain  broad, 
but  shallow  streams,  to  the  second,  near  the  op- 
posite shore,  where  the  other  guide  was  posted. 

"I  have  seen  nothing  like  this  since  I  crossed 
the  desert,"  ejaculated  the  young  man,  with  ad- 
miration. "I  can  almost  fancy  that  those 
horses  are  camels,  and  the  trees  on  yonder 
island  palms,  only  there  are  no  thieves  of  Be- 
douins." 

"But  in  Egypt  there  is  no  sea,  Richard,  like 
that  which  seems  to  hunger  yonder  for  men's 
lives.  Is  it  not  strange  to  think  that  all  this 
space  now  used  as  a  safe  road  by  man  and  beast 
will,  in  an  hour  or  two  hence,  be  -landless  sea  ? 
that  not  one  of  those  black  rocks  that  stand  out 
so  prominently  yonder  will  lift  its  head  above 
the  waves.  Folks  talk  of  there  being  '  no  sea  to 
speak  of,  in  these  parts,  but  if  they  mean  that 
the  ocean  has  here  no  elements  of  grandeur  and 
terror,  they  are  much  mistaken.  Its  very  re- 
treat and  advance  so  many  miles  are  something 
wondrous  ;  and  when  I  see  the  crowds  of  people 
crossing  thus  daring  its  short  absence,  I  always 
think  of  the  Israelites  passing  through  tlie  Red 
Sea  upon  dry  land.  Nay,"  added  she,  as  if  to 
lierself,  and  with  reverence,  "it  is  only  God's 
arm  that  keeps  the  waves  from  swallowing  us 
up  to-day." 

"  The  local  name  for  the  large  beds  In  which  the  cockles 
are  found. 


"Yes,  of  course,"  returned  Richard  dryly; 
"  yet  the  tides  obey  fixed  laws,  I  suppose,  and 
can  be  calculated  upon  to  within  a  few  minutes; 
otiierwise  I  should  say  these  good  folks,  includ- 
ing ourselves,  are  somewhat  fool-hardy." 

"  I  have  known  the  tide  come  in  here  more 
than  two  hours  earlier  than  usual,"  returned 
the  young  girl  gravely.  "  There  was  a  ship 
wrecked  in  yonder  bay  in  consequence ;  the  men 
having  gone  ashore  and  left  her,  higli  and  dry, 
and  feeling  confident  of  returning  in  time.  A 
strong  south  wind  will  always  bring  the  sea  up 
quickly.'' 

"There's  a  south  wind  to-day,  Agnes," 
laughed  her  cousin.  "I  think  you  must  be 
making  experiments  upon  my  courage." 

"Nay,"  returned  she,  "the  breeze  is  very 
light.  Besides,  the  guides  and  the  cockle  is  all 
know  very  well  what  they  are  about.  It  is  very 
seldom  any  one  is  lost,  and  when  they  arc,  it  is 
through  their  own  folly,  poor  folks." 

"They  get  drunk  a  good  deal  in  these  parts, 
don't  they?"  said  the  young  man,  carelessly, 
as  he  sat  down  on  the  camp-stool  and  began 
to  sharpen  a  pencil,  "and  being  half-seas- 
over  before  they  start,  why  it's  no  wonder  if  the 
tide—" 

"  Hush,  Richard,  do  not  jest  with  death,"  said 
the  girl,  reprovingly.  "Men  and  women  have 
sins  to  answer  for  here  as  in  other  places  ;  but  I 
have  ever  found  them  an  honest  and  kindly 
race."  1 

"Well,  I  only  hope  in  addition  to  kindliness  ' 
and  honesty  your  friend  Stephen  reckons  so- 
briety among  his  virtues.  What!  He  is  a 
little  fond  of  tippling,  is  he?  Phew  !"  here  the 
young  man  indulged  in  a  long  low  Mhistle,  and 
his  black  eyes  beamed  with  sly  laughter. 

"  Stephen  is  weak,"  replied  Agnes  Crawford, 
gravely  ;  "though  not  so  bad,  even  in  his  weak- 
ness, as  some  say." 

"  There,  I  see  it  all,"  cried  the  young  man, 
clapping  his  hands  so  sharply  that  the  half-dozen 
gulls  that  strutted  on  the  sands  a  little  way  off 
rose  heavily,  and  wheeled  in  the  blue  air,  ere 
alighting  at  a  greater  distance  ;  I  see  it  all  quite 
plainly.  My  Cousin  Agnes,  who  is  so  good  her-  j 
self  that  she  can  believe  evil  of  nobody,  employs  ' 
this  Stephen  because  no  one  else  will  employ 
him ;  she  trusts  him  because  every  body  says 
that  he  is  not  trustworthy." 

"I  believe  he  would  risk  his  life  to  save 
mine,"  rejoined  Agnes,  simply. 

"Of  course  he  would,  my  dear  cousin;  for 
without  you  he  is  probably  well  aware  that  he 
could  not  gain  a  living.  Don't  be  angry  now  ! 
I  am  only  delighted  to  find  you  are  so  un- 
changed ;  the  same  credulous,  tender-hearted 
creature  that  I  left  when  I  was  almost  a  boy. 
who  never  allowed  herself  the  luxury  of  going 
into  a  tantrum,  unless  one  of  her  dumb  favor- 
ites was  ill-treated.  Now  let  me  tell  you  a  se- 
cret— that  is,  something  which  is  a  secret  to  you, 
although  it  is  known  to  every  body  else  who  I 
knows  you.     My  dear  Agnes,  you  are  an  angel."    1 

"Don't  you  rumple  my  wings,  then,''  replied 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


the  young  {i;irl,  coolly,  as  Mr.  Riihard  Crawford 
concluded  his  eulogistic  remarks  hy  patting  her 
on  the  shoulder.  "  See !  yonder  is  a  drove  of 
cattle  ahout  to  cross  the  eau.  Are  they  not  pict- 
uresque? Now,  if  you  were  an  animal  painter 
instead  of  being,  like  myself,  only  able  to  draw 
immovable  objects — to  shoot  at  sitting  birds,  as 
it  were — we  might  by  our  joint  efforts  make  a 
very  pretty  picture  of  tliis  scene." 

"  You  make  a  very  charming  j)icture  alone,  I 
do  assure  you,"  said  her  cousin,  admiringly. 

The  remark  evoked  no  rejdy,  tior  even  a  touch 
of  color  on  the  young  girl's  clicek.  Her  brow 
just  clouded  for  a  moment,  that  was  all. 

"We  have  secured  an  excellent  position  for 
our  sketches,"  said  she,  after  a  pause,  and  each 
took  their  seat. 

"Do  people  ever  cross  the  sands  on  foot?" 
inquired  Richard,  presently,  in  a  constrained 
voice.  He  had  jjartcd  with  his  somewhat  free 
and  easy  manner,  and  manifestly  felt  that  lie  had 
been  going  too  fast  or  far  with  liis  coniijliments. 

"Very  rarely,"  returned  she.  "There  are 
always  some  places  tolerably  deep,  as  yonder, 
where,  as  you  see,  the  water  is  above  the  axle- 
trees  of  the  coach.  The  poorer  sort  of  cocklers, 
however,  sometimes  come  out  without  a  cart. 
Once  no  less  than  eight  peojjle  were  lost  in  that 
way,  and  on  a  perfectly  windless  day.  It  hap- 
pened before  we  came  to  live  here,  but  I  heard 
the  story  from  the  guide's  own  lips.  A  sudden 
fog  came  on,  and  they  were  all  drowned  ;  and 
yet  it  was  so  calm  that  when  the  bodies  were 
found  at  tlie  next  tide,  the  men's  hats  were  still 
upon  their  heads.  A  little  girl,  he  said,  with 
her  hands  folded  across  her  bosom,  lay  dead  be- 
side her  dead  father,  just  as  though  she  slept." 

"  Even  if  thej'  had  had  carts,  then,  the  poor 
folks  could  not  have  been  saved,"  observed  Rich- 
ard. 

"Yes.  it  was  thought  they  might,"  returned 
the  young  girl,  sadly.  "  The  guide  has  a  trum- 
i^et  which  carries  his  words,  or  at  all  events  the 
sound  of  them,  to  a  great  distance.  It  was 
supposed  they  were  making  for  the  right  direc- 
tion when  the  waters  overtook  them,  but  being 
encumbered  with  women  and  children,  and  on 
foot,  the  party  could  not  hurry  on." 

"  What  a  repertory  of  dreadful  stories  your 
friend  the  guide  must  !iave,  Agnes." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  answered  she,  gravely. 
"There's  one  church-yard  I  know  of  in  our 
neighborhood  in  which  have  been  buried  no  less 
than  one  hundred  persons,  victims  to  these 
treacherous  sands." 

"  And  the  quicksands  themselves  are  the 
graves  of  many,  I  suj)pose?" 

"No,  never;  or,  at  least,  almost  never.  They 
are  quicksands  in  the  sense  of  instability;  but 
they  do  not  suck  objects  of  any  considerable  size 
out  of  sight,  or  at  all  events  they  take  some  time 
to  do  so.  The  bodies  of  drowned  persons  are 
almost  always  found." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Agnes,  you  make  my  blood 
crec]).  Talking  to  this  guide  of  yours  must  be 
like  a  business  interview  witli  an  undertaker." 


"Nay,  Richard,''  rejoined  the  girl,  solemnly, 
"  siicli  stories  are  not  all  sad.  Death  lias  been 
sometimes  met,  as  it  were,  with  open  arms  by 
those  who  knew  it  was  eternal  life.  And,  be- 
sides, there  ai'c  narratives  of  hair-breadth  es- 
cai)es  from  peril  sometimes,  too,  wliich  instance 
the  noblest  courage  and  sclf-sacrificc.  I  wish, 
however,  that  there  was  no  such  road  as  Over 
Sands." 

"Nay,  then  w-e  should  never  have  been  here 
with  our  sketch-books,"'  returned  the  young 
man,  gayly.  "See!  I  have  put  iu  the  tiiree 
islands  already." 

"So  I  j)erccive,  Richard;  and  the  largest  of 
them  in  the  wrong  place.  Where  are  you  to 
sketch  in  yonder  village?" 

"  Oh  !  bother  the  village.  The  picture  is 
supposed  to  be  executed  when  the  country  was 
not  so  overbuilt.  What  are  those  little  trees 
sticking  up  above  the  river  ?  Every  thing  here 
seems  so  anomalous  that  I  ought  not  to  be  sur- 
prised;  but  nothing  grows  there  surely." 

"They  are  only  branches  of  furze  called 
'brogs,'  which  are  set  up  by  the  guides  to  mark 
the  fords.  It  is  their  business  to  try  the  bed  of 
the  stream  every  tide  —  for  what  was  fordable 
yesterday  may  be  quicksands  to-day  —  before 
folks  begin  to  cross.     There  goes  the  couch." 

"Yes,  and  how  the  passengers  do  stare,"  re- 
turned Richard;  nor,  indeed,  is  it  to  be  won- 
dered at,  if  it  is  their  first  experience  of  this 
road.  I  think  some  of  them  will  be  glad  when 
they  find  themselves  on  terra  Jirma.  Perhaps 
you  might  have  seen  me  arrive  rather  pale  in 
the  face,  Agnes,  if  I  had  come  home  this  way, 
instead  of  by  sea,  to  Whitehaven." 

"No,  Richard;  to  do  you  justice,  I  think  you 
are  afraid  of  nothing." 

"  I  am  afraid  of  one  thing,  and  that  is  of  you, 
cousin,  or  rather,  of  your  disjdeasure,"  said  the 
young  man,  sinking  his  voice,  and  speaking 
very  tenderly. 

"  If  you  are,  you  would  not  talk  such  non- 
sense," rejoined  his  cousin,  quietly. 

"Dear  Agnes,  don't  be  cruel,  don't;  nor  af- 
fect to  take  for  jest  what  I  mean  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul.  Thousands  of  miles  aw^ay  on 
the  wild  waves  the  very  likeness  of  your  face 
has  comforted  me,  which  you  gave  me  when  a\  e 
parted,  boy  and  girl,  so  many  years  ago.  Think, 
then,  what  happiness  it  is  to  me  to  gaze  upon 
that  face  itself,  a  child's  indeed  no  longer,  but 
with  all  the  innocence  and  purity  of  the  child 
beaming  from  it  still.  You  used  to  tell  me  that 
you  loved  me  then,  Agnes." 

"  And  so  I  tell  you  now,  Richard,"  returned 
the  girl,  changing  color  for  the  first  time,  as  she 
bent  over  her  drawing,  and  forced  her  trembling 
fingers  to  do  their  work.  "  I  love  you  now,  very 
much  indeed,  dear  cousin." 

"Cousin,"  repeated  the  young  man,  slowly, 
"yes ;  but  I  don't  mean  that,  as  you  well  know, 
Agnes.  I  only  wish  you  could  Iiave  seen  nie  in 
my  little  dingy  cabin,  reading  your  letters  by 
one  wretched  candle  stuck  in  a  ginger-beer  bot- 
tle— don't  laugh,  Agnes ;  I  am  sure  you  would 


CARLTON'S  YEAR. 


not  have  laughed  if  you  really  could  have  seen 
it.  I  quarreled  with  the  only  one  of  my  com- 
panions whom  I  lik->d,  and  knocked  him  hack- 
ward  down  the  comjjanion-ladder  hecause  he  put 
l)is  stui)id  foot  upon  the  desk  you  gave  me.  You 
are  laughing  again,  Agnes.  True,  I  was  only 
a  poor  lad  in  the  merchant  service,  and  poverty 
is  always  ridiculous ;  hut  I  would  have  shown 
my  love  for  you  in  other  ways  had  it  been  pos- 
sible. Heaven  knows  I  thought  of  little  else 
than  you !" 

"Look  here,  Cousin  Richard,"'  said  Agnes, 
rising  quickly  from  her  seat  and  speaking  with 
some  severity,  "  I  will  not  hear  this  talk  ;  you 
are  well  aware  what  my  father  thinks  of  it." 

"I  can  not  help  my  uncle's  not  liking  me,'' 
said  the  young  man  somewhat  sullenly. 

"Nor  can  I,  Richard,  or  vera  know  I  should 
make  him  esteem  you  as  I  do  myself.  But  you 
are  under  his  roof  now ;  he  is  your  host  as  well 
as  your  uncle — and  my  father.  That  is  reason 
good — independent  of  other  very  valid  ones  u]ion 
•which  I  do  not  wish  to  enter — why  you  should 
not  address  such  words  to  me.  I  think  you 
should  have  seen  they  were  distasteful,  Rich- 
ard, without  obliging  me  to  tell  you  so." 

The  young  man  did  not  utter  a  reply :  he 
only  bowed,  not  stiffly,  however,  and  held  his 
hand  up  once  and  let  it  fall  again  with  a  certain 
pathetic  dignitj-  that  seemed  to  touch  his  com- 
panion's heart,  and  indeed  did  so.  Her  large 
eyes  swam  with  tears. 

"Forgive  me,  Richard,  I  am  sorrj-  to  have 
pained  you,"  said  she,  in  soft  low  tones,  inex- 
ju-essibly  tender  ;   "  very  sorry." 

"  I  am  sure  you  are,  cousin."  That  was  all 
he  said  ;  his  handsome,  clear-cut  features  ap- 
peared to  have  grown  thinner  within  the  last 
few  minutes,  as  she  watched  his  side  face  bent 
down  over  his  sketch-book.  They  were  both 
silent  for  a  long  time,  during  which  they  plied 
their  pencils.  Draughtsmen  know  how  quickl}- 
the  hours  pass  in  this  way  without  notice. 
Presently  Richard  lifted  his  eyes  from  his  work, 
and  looked  around  him.  "Agnes,"  said  he, 
"why  does  not  Stephen  fetch  us?" 

She  looked  up  too,  then  started  to  her  feet 
with  agitation.  "My  God  !"  cried  she,  "the 
carts  have  all  gone  home." 

"  Don't  ba^  frightened,  dearest,"  said  the 
young  man,  confidently.  "There  are  two  carts 
still,  and  Stephen's  is  one  of  them.  My  eyes 
are  good,  and  I  can  recognize  it  plainly,  although 
it  is  a  great  way  off.  He  is  running  the  thing 
very  near;  that  is  all." 

'  *  Alas  !  he  has  forgotten  us  altogether,  Rich- 
ard. Both  those  carts  are  making  for  the  other 
side  ;  he  could  not  now  cross  over  to  us  even  if 
he  would.  Do  you  not  see  how  the  sea  has 
stretched  its  arm  between  us  and  him  ?" 

Richard  Crawford  uttered  a  tremendous  im- 
precation. 

"Do  not  curse  him,  Richard.  Tiiey  have 
given  him  drink,  and  he  knows  not  what  he  is 
doing ;  or  i)erhaps  he  concludes  that  we  have 
gone  home  by  other  means,  as  indeed  we  might 


have  done.  Poor  fellow,  he  will  be  sorn^  to- 
morrow. Curse  7ne,  rather,  my  poor  cousin ; 
for  it  is  I  who  have  murdered  you  in  having 
brought  you  hither." 

"  No,  no  !"  ejaculated  the  young  man,  vehe- 
mently. "Do  not  think  that.  I  swear  I 
would  rather  die  with  you  like  this,  than  live 
without  you.  But  is  there  no  hojje  ?  Hark ! 
wlKit  is  tliat  ?" 

"  It  is  the  guide's  trumpet  ;  they  see  our 
danger  from  the  land,  although  they  can  not 
helps  us." 

"Let  us  hasten,  then,  in  God's  name!"  ex- 
claimed the  young  man,  bitterly;  "and  if  He 
has  ordained  it  so,  let  us  die  as  near  home  as 
we  can." 


'^CHAPTER  II. 

BY  THE  WATERS   OF  DEATH, 

There  was  no  necessity  for  the  words  "let 
us  hasten."  Both  had  left  chairs  and  sketch- 
books, and  were  running  as  swiftly  as  they 
could  toward  the  western  shore ;  but  the  sand, 
lately  so  hard  and  firm,  was  now  growing  soft 
and  unstable — the  flowing  tide  already  making 
itself  felt  beneath  it ;  their  progress,  therefore, 
was  not  rapid. 

"  The  thought  that  I  have  brought  you  hither, 
Richard,  is  more  bitter  to  me  than  will  be  these 
waters  of  death,"  said  Agnes,  earnestlj*.  "You 
can  run  where  I  can  scarcely  walk ;  leave  me, 
then,  I  pray  you,  and  save  yourself.  Remem- 
ber, you  can  not  save  me  by  delaying,  but  will 
only  perish  also.  "Why  should  the  sea  have  two 
victims  instead  of  one  ?" 

"  If  the  next  step  would  take  me  to  dryland," 
answered  the  young  man,  vehemently,  "and 
you  were  dee))  in  a  quicksand,  lifting  your  hand 
in  last  farewell — like  the  poor  soul  you  told  me 
of  yesterday — I  would  gladly  think  that  yon 
beckoned  to  me,  and  would  turn  back  and  join 
you  in  your  living  graA"e." 

She  reached  her  hand  out  with  a  loving  smile, 
and  he  took  it  in  his  own,  and  hand  and  hand 
they  hastened  over  the  jjcrilous  way.  Richard, 
because  he  knew  his  cousin  and  how  little  like- 
ly she  was  to  be  alarmed,  far  less  to  desjiair,  un- 
less upon  sufficient  grounds,  was  aware  of  their 
extreme  danger  ;  otherwise,  a  stranger  to  the 
place  would  at  present  have  seen  no  immediate 
cause  for  fear.  The  sea  was  yet  a  great  way 
off,  save  for  a  few  inlets  and  ])atches  which  be- 
gan to  make  themselves  ajiparcnt  as  if  by  mag- 
ic ;  moreover,  the  shore  to  which  they  were 
hastening  had  become  so  near  that  they  could 
plainly  perceive  the  knot  of  people  gathered 
round  the  guide,  and  hear  the  words,  "  Quick, 
quick,"  which  he  never  ceased  to  utter  through 
his  trumpet,  with  the  utmost  distinctness.  It 
seemed  impossible  that  two  persons  should  be 
doomed  to  perish  within  sight  and  hearing  of 
so  many  fellow-creatures,  all  eager  for  their 
safety.     And  yet  both  were  doomed.     Between 


CARLTON'S  YEAR. 


them  and  the  land  lay  the  larger  of  the  two  riv- 
ers that  emptied  themsclvee  into  the  bay  at 
high  water,  and  ran  into  the  open  sea  at  low. 
The  current  was  setting  in  I>y  tiiis  time  very 
swiftly,  and  the  swirling  turbid  waters  were 
broadening;  and  deepening  every  minute.  The 
banks  of  this  stream,  instead  of  being  firm  sand, 
were  now  a  mass  of  white  and  slippery  mud,  a 
considerable  extent  of  which  lay  between  the 
eau  and  the  shore  ;  so  that  it  was  impossible  to 
carry  or  even  to  push  down  a  boat  upon  its 
treacherous  surface  to  the  river's  edge.  The 
bank  upon  which  the  two  unfortunates  were 
standing  was  not  as  yet  so  much  dissolved  as 
the  other,  but  they  could  feel  it  growing  more 
and  more  unstable  beneath  their  feet,  as  they 
now  stood  on  the  brink  of  the  eau,  not  fifty  yards 
from  their  would-be  rescuers.  The  scene  was 
only  less  terrible  to  these  than  to  the  doomed 
pair  themselves.  Women  could  be  seen  among 
the  crowd  wringing  their  hands  in  agony,  and 
strong  men  turning  their  heads  away  for  the  jtity 
of  so  heart-rending  a  spectacle.  Once,  either 
moved  by  the  entreaties  of  others,  or  unable  to 
restrain  his  own  feverish  desire  to  be  doing 
something,  a  horseman  spurred  his  steed  upon 
the  ooze,  as  though  he  would  have  crossed  the 
river  to  their  aid  ;  but  the  poor  animal,  well  ac- 
customed to  the  sands,  and  conscious  of  danger, 
at  first  refused  to  move,  and  when  compelled, 
at  once  began  to  sink,  so  that  it  was  with  diffi- 
culty that  either  man  or  horse  reached  land 
again. 

'■  Swim,  swim  I"  cried  the  guide,  throiigli  his 
trumpet. 

"  Yes,  swim,"  echoed  Agnes.  "  IIow  selfish 
it  was  of  me  to  forget  that.  It  is  very  difficult, 
but  to  a  good  swimmer  like  yourself  it  is  not 
utterly  hopeless.  Lot  the  tide  carry  you  x^) 
yonder  as  far  as  the  island,  Richard,  then  strike 
out  for  that  sj^it  of  land ;  there  is  firm  footing 
there.  Take  your  coat  oflF,  and  your  shoes  ; 
onick.  quick  !" 

The  young  man  looked  mechanically  in  the 
direction  indicated,  then  smiled  sadly,  and  shook 
his  head. 

"  We  are  not  going  to  be  parted,  Agnes  ;  we 
are  to  be  together  for  ever  and  ever.  You 
believe  that  I  love  you  now?"'  added  he  with 
grave  tenderness. 

She  did  not  hear  him.  Her  e3'es  were  fixed 
on  a  high-wooded  hill,  close  by  the  promontory 
I  have  mentioned,  with  the  roof  of  a  house 
showing  above  the  trees.  This  was  her  home. 
"Poor  papa,  poor  papa!"  murmured  she; 
"  what  will  he  do  now,  all  alone  ?"  The  tears 
stood  in  her  eyes  for  the  first  time  since  she  had 
been  made  aware  of  their  danger.  Both  had 
now  to  step  back  a  little,  for  the  bank  was 
crumbling  in  ;  the  increasing  stream  gnawed  it 
away  in  great  hunches,  which  fell  into  the  cur- 
rent, making  it  yet  more  turbid  than  before. 
There  was  still  a  considerable  tract  of  sand,  firm 
to  the  eye,  although  in  reality  quite  unstable,  ly- 
ing between  them  and  the  sea ;  but  the  latter 
Iiad  now  altered  its  i)lan  of  attack.     It  no  lon^^- 


er  made  its  inroads  here  and  there,  running  sly- 
ly up  into  creeks  and  coves  of  sand,  and  hold- 
ing j)Ossession  of  them  until  reinforcements 
came  \\\>,  but  was  advancing  boldly  in  one  long 
low  line,  with  just  a  fringe  of  foam  above  it 
like  the  sjiutter  of  musketry.  In  addition  to 
the  threatening  growl  noticeable  so  long,  could 
also  now  be  heard  a  faint  and  far-off  roar. 

"  It  will  soon  be  over  now,  Richard,"  said  the 
yonng  girl,  squeezing  the  hand  that  still  held 
her  own  ;   "that  sound  is  our  death-knell." 

"What  is  it,  Agnes?" 

"  It  is  the  tidal  wave  they  call  the  Bore.  It 
may  be  half  an  hour  away  still ;  it  may  be  but 
a  few  minutes.  But  when  it  comes  it  will  over- 
whelm us." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  blue  sky,  which 
•was  smiling  upon  the  scene  of  despair  and  death, 
after  nature's  cruel  f\ishion,  and  her  lips,  which 
had  not  lost  their  color,  moved  in  silent  prayer. 
Suddenly  a  great  shout  from  the  shore,  echoed 
by  another  from  Richard,  drew  her  thoughts  again 
to  earth. 

The  crowd  of  people  on  the  shore  were  part- 
ing to  admit  the  passage  of  a  man  and  horse, 
both  so  large  that  the  guide  and  the  animal  he 
bestrode  seemed  by  comjjarison  to  become  a  boy 
and  pony. 

"  What  are  they  shouting  for,  Agues  ?"  asked 
the  young  man,  eagerly. 

"Because,"  said  she,  "yonder  is  the  man 
who  can  save  us  yet,  if  man  can  do  it." 

She  spoke  with  calmness,  but  there  was  a 
flush  upon  her  check,  and  a  light  in  her  eye, 
which  the  other  did  not  fail  to  mark. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  he  half  angrily.  For  if 
men  can  be  angry  on  their  death-beds,  how 
much  more  when,  though  in  view  of  death, 
they  are  still  hale  and  strong. 

"  It  is  John  Carlyon,  of  Woodlees,"  said  she. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THK   EOAN  AND  HIS  EIDEE. 

It  might  well  have  surprised  and  shocked  a 
stranger  to  have  seen  that  cluster  of  village  folks 
watching  for  so  long  the  approaching  doom  of 
two  of  their  fellow-creatures,  without  making — 
with  the  exception  of  the  attempt  we  have  men- 
tioned— a  single  eff"ort  to  save  them.  Their  in- 
action, however,  really  arose  from  their  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  fruitlessncss  of  such  ef^'orts. 
It  was  not  the  first  time,  nor  the  second,  nor  the 
fiftieth  that  the  sea  had  tlius  marked  out  for  it- 
self prey  in  that  same  bay  hours  before  it  actu- 
ally seized  it,  quite  as  certain  of  its  victims  as 
though  its  waves  were  already  rolling  over  them. 
Hundreds  of  years  ago  it  was  the  same,  when 
the  guides  were  paid  with  Peter's  pence  by  the 
old  Priors  of  Mellor,  and  were  prayed  for  dur- 
ing their  perilous  passage  together  with  those 
entrusted  to  their  guidance  by  the  monks  on 
Lily  Isle,  the  ruins  of  whose  oratory  could  yet 
be  seen.     As  Ave  and  K^rie  had  failed  to  save 


10 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


those  who  had  delayed  too  long  upon  that 
treacherous  waste,  so  good  wishes  availed  not 
now.  And  they  were  jill  which  could  be  given 
in  the  way  of  aid.  It  was  very  doubtful  wheth- 
er Richard  Crawford  could  liavc  saved  himself 
by  swiuiining  even  at  the  moment  when  it  had 
been  suggested  to  him.  The  strength  of  the  tide 
of  the  eau  was  very  great;  "  the  furious  river 
struggled  hard  and  tossed  its  tawny  mane,"  and 
firm  footing  there  was  none  on  either  bank.  It 
was  this  last  fact  which  the  stranger  was  slow 
to  comprehend. 

"Surely,"  he  would  say,  "a  good  swimmer 
has  only  got  to  wait  for  tlie  water  to  come  up." 
But  long  before  it  could  do  so  the  victim  found 
himself  in  something  which  was  neither  land 
nor  water,  and  in  which  he  could  neither  stand 
nor  swim.  Neither  could  boat  nor  horse  get  at 
him  under  such  circumstances. 

Wiien  the  two  cousins  had  first  made  toward 
the  shore,  they  had  to  traverse  only  wet  sand, 
which  somewliat  clogged  their  footsteps.  Some 
patches  of  this  were  more  watery  than  others, 
and  tlirough  these,  progress  was  more  difficult. 
Presently  the  whole  surface  of  the  bay  assumed 
this  character,  and  then  where  the  patches 
had  been,  appeared  shallow  strips  of  water,  as 
yet  unconnected — superficially  at  least — with 
the  sea.  Through  these  they  had  to  make  their 
way,  ankle-deep  in  sand,  knee-deep  in  water. 
The  bank  upon  which  they  now  stood  was  high- 
er than  the  surrounding  space,  and  as  I  have 
said,  had  only  suflfered  the  first  change,  from 
sand  to  a  sort  of  white  mud.  The  people  on 
shore  were  as  perfectly  aware  of  what  these  two 
had  had  to  contend  witli,  as  though  they  had  ac- 
companied them  in  their  useless  flight ;  and  they 
knew  now,  as  well  as  Agnes  knew,  that  their  life 
was  to  be  reckoned  by  minutes,  and  depended 
upon  how  ra]jid  or  how  slow  might  be  the  ad- 
vance of  the  Bore  or  tidal  wave. 

This  wave  which  in  winter  or  in  storm  was 
sometimes  as  tall  as  a  man,  was  in  summer 
very  much  less :  but  it  never  came  up  until  the 
whole  surface  of  the  bay  was  under  water,  and 
all  hope  was  therefore  gone  for  them  it  found 
there. 

It  was  to  the  menacing  roar  of  this  coming 
doom  that  both  victims  and  spectators  were  now 
listening. 

"  It  will  be  twenty  minutes  yet,"  said  so«e 
among  the  latter;  "Nay,  not  so  long,"  said 
others;  "The  sooner  tlie  better,  poor  things," 
added  one,  to  which  many  murmured  a  sorrow- 
ful assent. 

All  seemed  to  know  how  the  sad  mischance 
had  occurred,  and  yet  no  one  alluded  to  the 
man  whose  forgetfulness  or  more  culpable  neg- 
lect had  caused  the  catastrophe.  The  reason 
of  this  was  that  William  Millet,  Stephen's  only 
son,  was  among  the  crowd.  His  face  was  dead- 
ly pale,  and  twitched  like  one  with  the  palsy. 
He  would  have  given  his  life  to  have  saved  the 
victims  of  his  father's  folly,  and,  indeed,  had  al- 
most done  so,  for  it  was  he  who  had  mounted 
the  guide's   horse,  awhile   ago,  and  strove   to 


reach  them.  Every  word  that  was  spoken 
around  him,  notwitlistanding  the  reticence  above 
alluded  to,  went  to  his  heart  like  a  stab. 

"  How  I  wish  we  had  brought  them  home  in 
our  cart,"  said  one  woman,  who  had  been  cock- 
ling upon  the  sands  the  preceding  tide. 

"  Ay,  or  we  in  ours,"  returned  another  ;  "  but 
there,  how  is  one  to  know  ?  Wlio  could  have 
thought — "  and  William  knew,  though  his  own 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  cousins,  tiiat  a  glance 
from  the  speaker  toward  where  he  stood,  con- 
cluded the  sentence. 

"  The  Lord  will  take  Miss  Agnes  to  himself, 
that's  sure,"  said  one  in  a  solemn  voice.  "It 
is  the  poor  folk  who  are  to  be  pitied,  rather  than 
she,  for  tliey  will  miss  her." 

"  Ay,  that's  true,"  murmured  many  voices. 

"  She  will  be  in  heaven  in  twenty-five  min- 
utes, or  half  an  hour  at  farthest,'"  continued  the 
same  speaker,  with  exactness— a  good  man,  by 
trade  a  cobbler,  but  who,  imagining  himself  to 
have  the  gift  of  preaching,  was  sometimes  car- 
ried beyond  his  last. 

"  And  the  lad,  too,  I  hope,"  returned  a  fresh- 
featured  dame  somewhat  sharply.  "Did  yi,a 
not  see  how  he  would  not  leave  her  when  D'uk 
called  out  to  him  to  swim.  That  Mill  be  taken 
into  the  account,  I  sup]iose." 

"  We  have  no  M'arrant  for  that, "resumed  the 
cobbler,  shaking  his  head. 

"  God  will  never  be  hard  upon  one  so  young 
and  so  bonny  as  yon,"  rejoined  the  dame,  with 
a  certain  emphasis  about  the  words,  implying  that 
thecobbler  was  neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 

"I  trust  not,"  returned  the  other  simply. 
"  Let  us  all  entreat  of  Him  to  be  merciful  to 
those  who  are  about  to  fall  into  His  hands." 

If  there  had  been  time  to  reflect,  not  a  few 
of  those  present  would  doubtless  have  hesitated 
to  follow  such  a  spiritual  leader  as  the  mender 
of  material  soles  ;  but  as  he  raised  his  voice  in 
passionate  pleading  with  the  Almighty — using 
such  texts  of  Holy  Writ  as  seemed  to  him  ap- 
jdicable  to  the  circumstances — every  man  bared 
his  head,  and  every  voice  joined  audibly  in  the 
Amen  that  followed  his  supplication. 

Never,  perhaps,  since  the  days  of  the  Early 
Church,  was  any  company  gathered  together  by 
the  sea-shore  in  act  of  worship  more  reverent 
and  awe-struck  than  was  that  little  handful  of 
fisher-folk  in  those  brief  moments ;  but  while 
the  last  solemn  word  was  being  spoken,  and  its 
sound  growing  faint  and  far  overhead,  as  though 
already  upon  its  way  to  the  Throne  of  Grace, 
the  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs  was  heard  from  tlie 
village  street,  and  down  the  steep  lane  wliich  led 
from  it  to  the  sea  came  a  rider  at  full  speed. 
His  own  height,  as  fiir  as  you  might  judge  a 
man  in  the  saddle,  must  have  been  considera- 
bly more  than  six  feet,  but  the  red  roan  which 
he  bestrode  was  so  large  and  powerful,  that 
steed  and  rider  together  looked  quite  colossal ; 
just  as  though  a  mounted  statue  had  descended 
from  its  pedestal,  as  in  the  days  of  portents. 

"  Make  way,  make  way,"  cried  he  ;  and  as 
the  obedient  crowd  parted  to  ri-lit  and  left,  "  A 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


11 


rope,  a  rope  !"  he  added,  then  galloped  rigiit  on 
to  the  white  unctuous  mud.  So  great  and  swift 
was  the  impetus  with  which  he  rode  that  he  got 
beyond  the  i)lace  which  the  guide's  horse  had 
reached  without  much  difficulty  or  hindrance. 
Here,  however,  the  roan  began  to  stagger  and 
slide,  and  then  as  he  sunk  fetlock  deep,  and  far- 
ther, into  the  impatient  ooze,  to  flounder  in  a 
pitiful  manner.  Upon  such  unstable  footing  the 
weight  of  his  rider  was  evidently  too  much  for 
his  powers.  Ere,  however,  that  tliouglit  could 
shape  itself  into  words  among  the  lookers-on, 
the  man  leaped  from  his  saddle,  and  while  obliged 
to  siiift  his  own  feet  with  the  utmost  rajiidity  to 
save  them  from  a  like  fate,  he  drew  the  animal 
by  main  force  out  of  the  reluctant  mud,  and  led 
him  trembling  with  sweat  and  fear,  to  the  brink 
of  the  can.  Now  tlie  river,  although  swollen 
by  this  time  to  a  most  formidable  breadth,  and 
running  very  swift  and  strong,  had  about  this 
spot  a  bed  comparatively  firm,  and  which  sel- 
dom shifted ;  so  that  what  seemed  to  the  super- 
ficial observer  the  most  perilous  part  of  the 
whole  enterprise — namely,  the  passage  of  the 
river — was,  in  reality,  the  least  difficult.  Horse 
and  man  seemed  to  be  equally  well  aware  of 
the  fact,  and  when  the  former  felt  the  water  up 
to  his  girths,  he  for  the  first  time  ceased  to  plunge 
and  struggle,  and  even  stood  still  for  his  master 
to  remount  him. 

"  Up  stream,  up  stream,"  roared  the  guide 
with  trumpet  voice  to  the  two  unfortunates,  who 
were  watching  the  heroic  efforts  of  their  would- 
be  rescuer  with  earnest  eyes ;  "'  he  can  not  come 
straight  across."  And  indeed,  while  he  yet 
spoke,  the  current  had  taken  man  and  horse,  de- 
spite their  weiglit  and  determination,  many 
yards  to  the  northward  ;  and  the  two  cousins 
hurried  in  that  direction  also,  over  the  fast-dis- 
solving ooze.  If  once  the  roan  lost  footing, 
himself  and  master  would  have  been  carried  to 
a  spot  where  the  river  ceased  to  be  fordable,  and 
where  the  banks  were  even  of  a  less  trustworthy 
nature  than  those  between  which  they  now  were ; 
and,  but  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him  down,  this 
would  have  assuredly  happened.  With  such  a 
weight  upon  him  it  seemed  easier  to  the  poor 
animal  to  walk  than  to  swim ;  his  vast  strong 
back  was  totally  submerged,  and  only  the  sad- 
dle visible ;  but  his  head  showed  grandly  above 
the  stream,  the  fine  eyes  eager  for  the  opposite 
bank,  and  the  red  nostrils  pouring  their  full  tide 
of  life  in  throbs  like  those  of  a  steam-engine. 
But  for  that  head  the  rider  himself,  half  hidden 
by  the  tawny  waves,  might  have  been  taken  for 
a  centaur.  He  looked  like  one  quite  as  ready 
to  destroy  men's  lives,  if  that  should  be  neces- 
sary, as  to  save  them  ;  to  snatch  a  beauty  for 
himself  from  a  Lapithean  husband,  as  to  pre- 
serve her  from  the  ancient  ravisher  Death !  He 
was  by  no  means  a  very  young  man  ;  but  if  he 
had  passed  the  prime  of  life,  he  was  still  in  its 
vigor,  and  that  vigor  was  something  Herculean. 
His  hat  had  fallen  during  the  late  struggle  with 
his  horse,  and  the  sliort  brown  curls  that  fringed 
his  ample  forehead  showed  here  and  there  but 


scantily,  although  they  had  no  tinge  of  grey. 
His  large  brown  eyes,  although  fi.xed  steadfast- 
ly enough  upon  the  point  he  hoped  to  reach,  ex- 
hibited little  anxiety,  and  certainly  no  fear. 
Their  exiiresgion,  although  far  from  cold,  was 
cynical,  and  the  firm  lii)s,  pressed  tightly  togeth- 
er as  they  now  were,  yet  sjjoke  of  recklessness 
if  not  of  scorn.  The  gallant  roan,  as  he  neared 
the  wished-for  shore,  drew  gradually  out  of  wa- 
ter, until  his  girths  scarce  touched  the  stream  ; 
but  his  rider  made  no  attemjit  to  force  him  to 
climb  the  bank. 

"  Be  ready,"  shouted  he  to  those  who  await- 
ed him  ;  then  leaving  the  saddle,  he  hastily 
motioned  to  Agnes  to  take  the  vacated  seat. 
"No,  no!"  cried  he,  as  slie  was  about  to  put 
her  foot  into  the  stirrup-leather,  "  you  must 
trust  to  me  to  hold  you  on,"  and  he  passed 
his  huge  arm  round  her  dainty  waist.  "  Hold 
fast  by  the  other  stirrup,"  said  he  to  Richard, 
"and  stand  against  the  stream  all  you  can." 
Then,  leading  his  horse  close  under  the  bank 
to  southward,  so  far  as  he  judged  safe  in  order 
to  allow  for  shifting,  he  turned  his  head  to 
land.  A  shout  of  admiration  had  burst  forth 
from  those  on  shore  when  he  had  succeeded  in 
crossing  the  eau ;  but  every  voice  was  hushed 
as  the  horse  with  its  fair  burden,  and  the  two 
men  on  either  side  her  saddle,  began  the  return 
passage.  Nothing  was  heard  save  the  labore<l 
breathing  of  the  roan  and  the  increasing  roar 
of  the  ocean,  enraged,  as  it  seemed,  at  this  at- 
tempt to  deprive  it  of  its  lawful  prey.  Rich- 
ard, who  was  upon  the  side  next  the  sea,  had 
trouble  enough  to  keep  his  footing ;  but  the 
stranger  had  allotted  to  himself  a  far  more 
difficult  task  ;  his  huge  form  leaned  against  the 
horse  with  all  its  strength,  and  so  strove  to 
neutralize  the  rush  of  the  tide,  which  was  bear- 
ing them  all  to  northward. 

"God  bless  you,  Mr.  Carlyon,"  said  Agnes 
once,  and  then  was  silent. 

The  strong  man  bowed  gravely  and  smiled — 
though  his  air  was  not  so  confident  as  when  he 
had  made  the  passage  alone — but  answered 
nothing.  Indeed,  he  had  no  breath  to  spare. 
Clogged  with  his  wet  clothing,  pushing  through 
sand  and  water,  and  fighting  against  the  weight 
of  his  two  companions  and  the  roan,  as  well  as 
against  the  stream,  his  task  was  arduous 
enough,  even  for  one  of  his  enormous  strength. 
The  water  deepened  with  every  step,  and  the 
force  of  the  current  increased. 

"Not  so  fast,"  cried  Richard,  staggering  in 
vain  to  keep  his  feet. 

"Faster  or  you  are  a  dead  man,"  was  the 
stern  response. 

They  were  at  the  very  worst  by  that  time  and 
in  the  centre  of  the  flood.  Richard  almost 
neck  deep ;  the  horse  still  feeling  ground,  but 
with  his  very  nostrils  in  the  water ;  Agnes 
deadly  pale,  but  bearing  herself  as  resolute  and 
quiet  as  though  she  were  Undine  herself.  The 
great  shoulders  of  John  Carlyon  still  showed 
above  the  tawny  waves.  They  had  passed  the 
centre,  and  were  getting  into  shallower  water. 


12 


CAKLYON'S  YEAR. 


The  breathing  of  the  horse  was,  however,  grow- 
ing very  labored  and  painful. 

"  He  will  never  climb  the  bank,"  said  Agnes, 
calmly. 

"I  know  it,"  returned  the  other;  "but  I 
shall  save  you,  do  not  fear." 

His  eyes  fell  once  upon  her  grave  and  glori- 
ous beauty,  then  turned  anxiously  to  south- 
ward. The  roaring  of  the  sea  was  growing 
very  near.  As  they  reached  the  bank,  and  be- 
fore the  roan  could  lift  his  fore-feet,  and  so 
place  the  barrier  of  his  neck  and  shoulders  be- 
tween his  burden  and  the  shore,  John  Carlyon's 
arm  s\ve])t  Agnes  from  the  saddle  and  drew  her 
up  the  bank.  Tlic  poor  roan,  the  bulk  of  liis 
])rotector  thus  withdrawn,  uttering  a  terrible 
snort  of  fear  and  anguish,  was  instantly  whirl- 
ed away.  Agnes  had  stretched  out  her  hand 
and  caught  her  cousin  by  the  collar  of  his  coat, 
or  he  would  assuredly  have  shared  the  same 
fate.  As  it  was,  the  three  together  struggled 
on  through  the  water,  for  all  was  water  now. 
It  was  then,  for  the  first  time,  that  Agnes  ut- 
tered a  stifled  cry  of  horror.  The  tidal  wave 
was  coming ;  within  ten  feet  of  them  it  reared 
its  creaming  crest.  Carlyon  saw  it  too,  and 
stretched  out  one  giant  arm  as  though  for  help. 
As  he  did  so  something  struck  him  sharply  in 
the  face,  and  his  fingers  closed  uijon  a  rope, 
thrown  at  him  lasso-wise  by  some  one  on  the 
land.  The  next  moment  all  three  were  under 
water,  with  a  noise  in  their  ears  like  the  roar 
of  a  broadside  from  a  thi'ee-decker.  But  the 
line  was  being  pulled  taut,  though  not  too 
sharply  ;  and  presently  the  three  were  dragged 
on  shore  in  a  tangled  mass,  like  some  great 
waif  from  a  wreck. 

The  first  to  rise  was  Richard  Crawford.  He 
pushed  his  wet  hair  back  with  both  his  hands, 
and  gazed  vacantly  at  the  other  two,  round 
whom  the  crowd  was  standing,  although  at 
some  little  distance,  for  they  knew  better,  from 
long  experience  of  like  mischances,  than  to 
throng  close  about  folks  in  such  a  plight,  who 
need  air  above  all  tilings,  and  to  whom  at  first 
all  help  is  an  incumbrance. 

As  consciousness  returned,  Richard's  brow 
began  to  knit,  and  he  strove  feebly  to  unclasp 
the  arm  that  still  encircled  his  cousin's  waist. 

But  the  powerful  muscles  mechanically  re- 
tained their  hold. 

Presently  Agnes  opened  her  large  eyes  and 
gazed  wonderingly  about  her ;  the  color  rushed 
to  her  white  cheeks,  and  her  hand,  too,  sought 
to  release  itself  from  that  which  held  her.  At 
the  touch  of  her  cold  fingers  those  of  her  pre- 
server began  at  once  to  relax  their  grasp ;  but 
the  next  instant,  catching  sight  of  the  ghastly 
face  beside  her,  she  desisted. 

"He  is  dying,"  cried  she;  "fetch  the  doc- 
tor. Fetch  Mr.  Carstairs.  Quick,  quick!" 
and  taking  one  great  palm  between  her  small 
hands  she  strove  to  recall  in  it  the  warmth  that 
seemed  to  bave  fled  forever.  Truly  it  seemed 
strange  enough  that  this  strong  man,  to  whose 
Herculean  force  the  pair  were  indebted  for  their 


safety,  should  be  the  last  of  the  three  to  recov- 
er from  the  late  shock.  The  fine  face  was  pale 
as  marble,  except  for  a  certain  blue  tint  about 
the  temples ;  the  eyes  between  their  half-shut 
lids  expressionless  and  dim  ;  the  limbs  rigid  ; 
and  the  still  curved  left  arm  lying  motionless 
beside  him,  which  had  so  lately  borne  her 
from  death  to  life.  He  did  not  want  for  tend- 
ance :  other  hands  were  chafing  his  wrists, 
and  had  unloosed  his  neckcloth,  and  propped 
his  stately  head  ;  but  she  knelt  by  him  still, 
ceaselessly  adjuring  them  to  fetch  the  doctor. 
At  last  he  came;  a  middle-aged,  intelligent 
man,  with  a  quick  step  and  voice. 

"  Bring  blankets,"  cried  he,  sharply.  Then 
])Oured  the  contents  of  a  phial  into  the  unre- 
sisting mouth. 

"Is  he  drowned?"  asked  the  young  girl,  in 
an  agonized  whisper. 

"No,  ma'am,  no,  it  is  not  that,"  returned 
he,  hastily,  but  with  an  anxious  look.  "  Here, 
William,  you  and  three  more  take  Mr.  Carlyon 
to  my  house.  Gently,  gently ;  keep  his  head 
uj).  No,  my  dear  IMiss  Agnes,"  said  he  firmly, 
as  the  girl  strove  to  accompany  the  party,  still 
clinging  to  the  hand  that  hung  down  cold  and 
lifeless,  "your  presence  will  be  worse  than  use- 
less. Go  home  at  once,  and- you,  Mr.  Richard, 
too" — for  the  young  man  had  constituted  him- 
self one  of  the  bearers  of  the  inanimate  body — 
"unless,  that  is,  you  wish  me  to  have  three 
patients  to  attend  to  instead  of  one.  Stop!" 
The  white  set  lips  of  John  Carlyon  began  to 
twitch  a  little,  and  Mr.  Cai-stairs  bent  down  to 
listen.  "Yes,  INIiss  Agnes  is  safe,  sir;  don't 
disturb  yourself,  I  beg.  It  was  William  Millet 
who  threw  the  rope.  There,  I  will  answer  no 
more  questions;  move  on,  men." 

"He  has  spoken,  he  will  live,  then,"  ex- 
claimed Agnes,  joyfully.  "Oh,  tell  me,  we 
have  not  caused  his  death  ?" 

"No,  ma'am,  you  have  not  caused  it.  That 
is — what  nonsense  I  am  talking.  You  should 
never  bother  a  medical  man,  Miss  Agnes," 
said  Mr.  Carstairs,  testily,  "  during  his  profes- 
sional duties.  Go  home  and  get  to  bed.  You 
are  as  wet  as  a  mermaid.  I  will  bring  you 
word  of  Mr.  Carlyon  to-night." 

"This  Carlyon  is  a  fine  fellow,  whoever  he 
is,"  observed  Richard  Crawford,  as  the  two 
cousins  walked  swiftly  homeward  by  the  side 
of  the  bay  that  had  so  nearly  proved  their 
grave  ;   "  but  who  is  he  ?" 

"He  is  the  owner  of  Woodlees,  the  estate 
that  lies  between  us  and  the  earl's." 

"  A  rich  man,  I  suppose,  then.  Is  he  a  mar- 
ried man,  or  a  widower?" 

"He  has  never  been  married,  I  believe," 
said  Agnes,  changing  color  in  spite  of  all  her 
eiforts  to  prevent  it. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now,"  observed  Rich- 
ard, drylv.  "  He  lives  rather  a  queer  life,  don't 
he?" 

Agnes  threw  at  him  a  glance  of  reproach, 
almost  of  resentment. 

"  He  has  just  saved  our  lives,"  said  she. 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


13 


"Yes,  true;  he  is  a  fine  fellow,  as  I  said, 
whatever  he  is.  I  shall  certainly  make  a  jjoint 
of  calling  upon  him  to  thank  him  in  person  on 
behalf  of  us  both.  Carlyon  —  what  an  odd 
name.      It's  scarcely  English." 

"  It  was  once  French.  The  old  family  name, 
they  say,  was  Cccur-de-Lion,''  answered  Agnes, 
coldly  ;  "  nor  can  it  be  denied  that  its  present 
inheritor  worthily  bears  the  title.  He  has 
shown  himself  a  lion-hearted  man  to-day." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

A     TERRIBLE     TURK. 

"Well,  doctor,  you  are  not  going  to  send 
for  Puce,  are  you  ?"  was  the  inquiry  addressed 
by  John  Carlyon,  as  he  lay  upon  the  horse-hair 
sofa  in  Mr.  Carstairs's  unchecrful  little  parlor. 
The  two  men  were  alone  ;  those  who  had  car- 
ried the  patient  to  the  doctor's  house  having 
departed,  well  pleased  enough  to  see  the  large 
blue  eyes  of  Squire  John  gaze  upon  them  once 
more  in  their  old  kindly  fasliion.  "It  is  not 
time  to  think  about  the  Rev.  Mr.  Puce  yet,  is 
it?" 

"  No,"  returned  the  doctor,  gravely;  "it  is 
not  necessary  to  think  about  Puce,  Mr.  John ; 
but  it  is  always  worth  a  man's  while  to  think 
about  God." 

Mr.  Carlyon  turned  his  yet  pale  f\ice  very 
sharply  round  upon  the  speaker.  But  Mr.  Car- 
stairs  was  gazing  through  the  wire  blind  upon 
the  dusty  village  street,  and  he  could  gather 
nothing  from  the  expression  of  his  shoulders. 

"My  good  friend,  you  are  rather  like  Puce 
yourself  in  one  thing,"  resumed  the  patient, 
dropping  his  eyelids,  partly  from  weariness — 
for  he  was  still  very  weak — and  partly  because 
it  was  his  wont  so  to  do  when  indulging  in  sar- 
casm; "although  his  trade  is  to  cure  souls,  he 
dearly  loves  to  recommend  all  sorts  of  patent 
medicines,  which  he  protests  have  done  him 
good ;  so  much  so  that  I  sometimes  think  he  is 
a  paid  agent  of  Parr  or  Holloway ;  and  you  in 
the  same  wa_y,  and  perhaps  in  retaliation  for 
his  conduct,  I  have  observed  to  take  your  op- 
portunities of  dropping  in  a  word  or  two  of  re- 
ligion." 

"It  is  not  so  altogether  unreasonable,  Mr. 
Carlyon,  as  you  seem  to  imagine ;  if  I  had 
made  an  investment  which  produced  a  very  tol- 
erable percentage  even  now,  and  which  prom- 
ised to  pay  a  thousandfold  at  some  future  time, 
is  it  not  natural  that  I  should  give  a  hint  to  my 
friends  that  they  also  might  lay  out  their  money 
to  so  great  an  advantage  ?" 

"Very  good,  doctor.  It  is  extraordinaiy 
with  what  a  gift  of  imagery  the  profession  of 
religion  seems  to  endow  its  advocates.  They 
take  up  their  parable  at  the  shortest  possible 
notice,  just  as  a  mere  infidel  might  pick  up  a 
stone.  There  is  Puce,  for  instance,  who  when 
pushed  by  simple  folk  like  me,  will  envelo)' 
himself  in  a  mist  of  metaphor,  like  any  cuttle 


fish,  and  so  escape.  When  a  man  becomes  a 
parson  it  really  seems  as  if  be  could  no  longer 
speak  straight.  His  words  begin  to  wheel  about 
the  subject  supposed  to  be  next  his  heart,  '  like 
doves  about  a  dove-cote,'  but  never  alight  upon 
it.  He  studies  to  say  the  least  he  can  in  the 
most  words." 

"I  don't  think  you  are  much  worried  by 
sermons,  Mr.  Carlyon,"  returned  the  other, 
dryly. 

"Well,  it  is  true,  I  don't  give  Puce  much 
opportunity  for  punishing  me  in  that  way. 
But  I  heard  him  preach  only  last  Sunday." 

"You  were  not  at  church,  were  you?"  ejac- 
ulated the  other,  turning  a  face  of  great  amaze- 
ment upon  his  patient. 

"Not  in  church,  but  I  was  just  outside,  so 
that  not  a  single  trojie  was  lost  u])on  me. 
Berild  and  I  were  wandering  about  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  while  he  cropped  a  little  church- 
yard grass,  I  thought  I  would  get  some  spiritu- 
al })rovender  for  myself.  We  were  quite  alone 
out  there,  for  the  earl  was  at  church — he  never 
fails  to  go  once  a  year,  you  know,  and  not  a 
soul  (worth  saving,  that  is)  in  all  the  parish 
but  was  there.  Not  only  a  great  muster  of 
carriage  people  and  gentility,  but  all  the  fine- 
wooled  sheep  from  the  cobbler's  fold.  You 
may  talk  of  the  dangers  of  dissent,  but  if  they 
get  to  be  serious  you  have  only  to  ordain  half  a 
hundred  of  the  junior  nobility  and  send  them 
into  the  disaffected  districts,  and  not  a  female 
saint  but  will  return  to  her  allegiance  forth- 
with. The  attention  of  the  congregation — no- 
body thought  of  looking  at  me  when  I  peeped 
in  —  seemed  to  be  about  equally  divided  be- 
tween Heaven  and  his  lordship  ;  but  that  of 
Puce,  I  will  do  him  the  justice  to  say,  was  entire- 
ly concentrated  upon  the  crimson  pew.  '  Now,' 
thought  I,  '  here  is  our  reverend  friend's  op- 
portunity for  saying  a  word  in  season.  He  has 
this  chance  but  once  in  twelve  months,  and 
surely  he  will  not  fail  to  take  advantage  of  it. 
There  will  be  something  in  the  discourse  for 
his  lordship's  particular  car  (as,  indeed,  there 
was,  although  scarcely  of  an  edifying  kind), 
or  else  he  is  even  a  more  pitiful  sneak  than  I 
take  him  for.'  I  confess  I  was  curious  to  hear 
the  elegant  periphrasis  by  which  he  would  deli- 
cately refer  to  the  existence  of  IMademoiselle 
Debonnaire,  the  latest  acquisition  to  our  re- 
spectable neighborhood,  and  whom  I  had  just 
met,  with  two  of  his  lordship's  grooms  sitting 
behind  her,  driving  a  pair  of  the  prettiest  little 
cream-colored  ponies  in  the  world.  An  allu- 
sion to  this  particular  weakness,  if  not  to  the 
object  of  it,  might  surely  have  been  hazarded, 
considering  the  very  advanced  age  of  the  no-' 
hie  sinner,  and  the  extreme  probability  that 
Puce  would  never  catch  him  at  church  again. 
And  yet  what  do  you  think  that  sermon  was 
about  ?  From  first  to  last  it  was  a  denuncia- 
tion of  the  unpardonable  crime  of  poaching. 
The  snare  of  the  wicked  one  was  represented 
in  the  literal  form  of  a  wire  and  horse-hair 
springe  ;  his  net  was  a  partridge  net ;  and  the 


14 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


human  agent  he  found  most  ready  ^o  his  hand 
was  an  uninquiring  game  dealer." 

"  The  fact  of  Puce  hapjjening  to  be  a  mean 
skunk — which  I  grant  very  readily,"  observed 
Mr.  Carstairs,  cheerfully,  "docs  not  invalidate 
the  claims  of  religion.  Of  course  it  is  very 
sad  that  a  clergyman  should  pander  to  his  pa- 
tron in  the  manner  you  describe,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  truly,  for  I  heard  that  his  lordship  con- 
gi'atulatcd  him  on  his  discourse.  But  the  man 
is  not  aware  of  his  own  degradation.  Many 
persons  who  fill  our  puljjits  are  quite  ignorant 
of  the  true  nature  and  beauty  of  the  tiling 
which  it  is  unhappily  their  lot  to  preach.  You 
might  as  well  expect  to  find  in  an  oi-gan-grind- 
er,  nay,  in  the  monkey  whose  mission  it  is  to 
sit  iqion  the  organ,  an  apj)rcciation  of  Mozart." 

"It  appears  to  me,  doctor,"  observed  Mr. 
Carlyon,  slyly,  "  that  that  last  remark  reflects 
upon  the  Church  as  well  as  the  parson.  You 
don't  think  much  of  hurdy-gurdies,  I  suppose?" 

"  I  think  a  good  deal  of  Mozart,"  answered 
the  other,  coldly.  "  Man's  attempts  to  express 
his  religious  sentiments  may  fall  very  short  of 
what  he  feels  ;  his  apparatus  of  worship  may 
be  exceedingly  incomplete ;  but  to  deny  the  ne- 
cessity for  an  operation  merely  because  our 
means  are  inadequate  to  perfect  success,  seems 
to  me  illogical ;  and,  if  you  will  forgive  me, 
rather  ungenerous." 

"Now,  don't  get  angry,  my  dear  doctor," 
observed  Mr.  Carlyon,  laughing;  "/have  no 
objection  to  the  monkey  and  the  organ,  I  do 
assure  you.  I  even  fiay  tliem  what  is  customa- 
ry without  a  murmur,  although  they  are  far 
from  pleasing  to  me.  I  am  not  like  the  cob- 
bler who  is  always  refusing  to  pay  his  church- 
rates." 

' '  No  ;  nobody  accuses  you  of  being  a  hypo- 
crite, Mr.  Carlyon,"  returned  the  doctor,  not 
unwilling  to  exchange  argument  for  agreement, 
even  if  only  upon  the  demerits  of  a  I'anter. 
"  That  Job  Salver  is  certainly  a  most  offensive 
humbug.  I  understand  the  fellow  M'as  singing 
a  psalm-tune  on  the  shore  yonder,  within  hear- 
ing of  that  <poor  girl  and  boy,  instead  of  stirring 
a  finger  to  help  them.  Both  would  have  solved 
the  problem  long  ere  this  which  you  and  I 
have  often  so  vainly  contended  about,  had 
their  safety  depended  upon  that  whining  char- 
latan, who  ventures  to  oppose  himself  to  all 
authority,  speaking  evil  of  dignities  and  things 
that  he  understands  not." 

"And  yet,"  said  Mr.  Carlyon,  thoughtfully, 
"it  is  very  curious — but  the  singing  of  that 
very  hymn  did,  in  point  of  fact,  save  those  two 
lives.  Red  Berild  and  I  were  going  slowly 
home,  and  had  even  reached  the  cross-roads, 
when  the  sound  of  the  psalm-singing  reached 
us  ;  whereupon,  instead  of  riding  down  the  hill 
to  the  Hall,  I  cantered  up  the  rise  to  see  what 
they  were  making  such  a  noise  about.  Then, 
thanks  to  poor  Berild,  who  did  the  half  mile 
in  about  a  minute,  we  got  down  just  in  time. 
It  was  a  precious  narrow  tiling  even  then  ;  and 
if  it  had  not  been  for  William  Millet  and  the 


rope,  we  should  all  have  been  in  kingdom- 
come  by  this  time — that  is,  if  your  views  are 
correct.  If  otherwise,  we  should  have  been, 
as  the  jockeys  say,  '  nowhere' — out  of  the  hu- 
man race  altogether." 

"  And  the  thought  of  tliat  gave  yon  no  un- 
easiness, Mr.  Carlyon,  eh  ?"  inquired  the  other 
sharply,  and  regarding  his  patient  with  great 
earnestness. 

"  I  did  not  think  about  it,  doctor,  for  there 
was  no  time  for  thought,  but  only  for  action. 
If  I  had  been  quite  certain  that  I  was  going  to 
my  death,  I  don't  quite  know  how  I  should 
have  felt.  All  change  is  disagreeable  to  a  man 
who  lias  reached  my  time  of  life  ;  if  you  were 
to  tell  me,  '  You  will  die  in  an  hour  from  this 
time  exactly' — as  in  certain  cases  you  doctors 
are  acquainted  with  —  it  would  '  give  me  a 
turn.'  If  I  know  myself,  however,  I  should 
certainly  entertain  no  fear.  There  is  nothing 
terrible  to  me  in  the  idea  of  annihilation." 

"  What  ?  to  lie  in  cold  obstruction  and  to 
rot  ?" 

"In  other  words,  to  go  to  sleep  and  not  to 
wake  again,  my  good  doctor.  What  is  there 
objectionable  in  that  ?  That  is  one  of  the 
ideas  which  it  is  conventually  agreed  upon 
among  religious  people  to  shudder  at.  I  am 
very  much  mistaken,  however,  if  nine-tenths 
of  the  good  folks,  who  express  themselves  so 
strongly  upon  this  subject,  would  not  gladly 
welcome  extinction  rather  than  run  the  risk 
of  a  much  worse  thing." 

"What!  would  men  be  content  to  die  like 
dogs?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carstairs. 

"Ay  ;  and  most  of  them  would  think  them- 
selves lucky  in  so  doing.  I  am  as  certain  of 
that  as  tiiat  I  am  lying  upon  this  sofa.  Many 
who  are  not  absolutely  terror-stricken,  are  con- 
scious that  they  have  been  more  fortunate  in 
this  world  than  they  deserve ;  and  are  afraid 
of  matters  being  righted  in  the  other  to  their 
own  disadvantage.  A  few,  such  as  my  lord  up 
at  the  park  yonder,  justly  conclude  (with  some 
character  in  one  of  Bulwer's  novels,  I  forget 
whom  or  which,)  that  it  is  doubtful  whether, 
in  any  other  state  of  life,  they  can  possibly  be 
so  well  off  as  they  have  been  in  this.  For  my 
own  part  I  sympathize  with  none  of  these  peo- 
ple ;  but  I  have  not  found  life  so  pleasant  as 
not  to  have  got  over  my  first  love  for  her.  It 
is  only  the  young  who  are  in  reality  enamor- 
ed :  for  though  the  old  cling  to  her  oftentimes 
with  impotent  desire,  it  is  not  because  they 
love  her,  but  because  thc}'  fear  the  shadow  that 
is  beckoning  them  away.  As  for  myself,  I 
have  said  I  have  no  fear,  and  what  loss  can 
death  inflict  upon  me  ?  You  and  I  arc  very 
good  friends,  doctor ;  but  we  can  endure  to 
part  from  one  another  though  it  even  should  be 
forever.  Observe,  for  yourself,  how  absence 
cools  the  friendship  of  the  very  best  of  friends ; 
the  materials  of  it  being  generally  far  from 
lasting.  Love,  indeed,  is  said  to  be  '  forever- 
more  ;'  but  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  offer  an 
opinion  on  that  delicate  matter ;  and  as  for  the 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


15 


tics  of  blood,  I  am  sure  I  could  bear  to  part 
from  my  only  sister,  Margaret,  with  equanimity ; 
and  I  ratlier  fancy  that  both  slic  and  nepiicw 
George  would  sutler  sucli  a  calamity  with  equal 
resignation,  provided  they  got  Woodlecs." 

"  Mrs.  Newman  docs  not  behave  to  you  in  a 
very  sisterly  manner,  I  must  own,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, primly;  '-but  there  is  one  excuse  to  be 
made  for  her;  she  is  a  bilious  subject.  Without 
revealing  matters  that  should  be  sacred,  I  can 
assure  you,  as  her  medical  attendant,  that  she 
has  a  great  deal  of  bile." 

"  lias  she  ?"  returned  the  other,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "  I  thought  it  was  religion  :  the 
symptoms  of  both  are  often  much  alike  to  the 
unlearned." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Carlyon,"  said  the  doctor, 
earnestly,  "I  am  no  bigot;  I  don't  print  texts 
round  the  wrappers  of  my  physic  bottles  as  some 
do." 

"What  moderation!"  exclaimed  the  other. 

"But,  I  do  confess,"  continued  Mr.  Car- 
stairs,  without  heeding  the  interruption,  "that 
nothing  annoys  me  more  than  these  ill-natured 
carpings  against  what  is,  to  me,  a  great  truth. 
From  your  lips  they  are  especially  obnoxious. 
Here  is  a  man  who  has  just  risked  his  life — nay 
more,  put  it  in  the  most  eminent  peril — to  save 
two  helpless  fellow-creatures  deserted  by  all 
other  human  aid — " 

"  Tut,  my  friend,  you  make  too  much  of  a 
small  matter,"  interposed  the  other,  with  an  air 
of  some  annoyance  ;  "and  besides,  you  know," 
he  added  gayly,  "I have  no  right  to  any  credit; 
it  was  not  even  a  good  action  in  your  eyes." 

"I  am  d— d  if  it  was  not!"  cried  Mr.  Car- 
stairs,  slapping  his  hand  upon  the  little  round 
table  till  the  phial  danced  in  the  tumbler. 

"Nay,  the  condemnation  falls  on  ?«e,"  replied 
the  other  bitterly.  ' '  What,  have  you  served  the 
office  of  church- warden,  and  yet  not  learned  that 
K'orks  done  by  unbelieving  wretches  (like  me, 
my  dear  sir,)  lack  grace  of  congruit}',  and  even 
have  the  nature  of  sin?  It  would  have  been 
wrong  for  me  not  to  have  assisted  those  two  poor 
tide-bound  fellow-creatures,  and  it  was  also  wrong 
for  me  to  do  so.  Hit  high,  hit  low,  we  can  nev- 
er please  you  theological  gentry." 

The  speaker's  face  was  very  stern  and  pale, 
and  his  voice  shook  with  passion. 

"I  do  not  deny,"  he  continued,  "that  there 
are  worse  churches  than  the  Church  of  England. 
Tliere  is  one  that  says  '  For  the  manifestation 
of  the  glory  of  our  Creator,  some  men  are  fore- 
ordained unto  everlasting  death  ;'  and  yet  they 
say  the  nation  that  invented  that  dogma  has  no 
sense  of  humor.  Well,  sir,  jjour  Church  is  only 
a  little  less  barbarous  than  this. 

"  John  Carlyon,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself,"  returned  the  doctor,  walking  swiftly 
toward  the  couch.  "To  say  such  words  within 
sight  of  yonder  church,  where  your  poor  father 
is  lying  in  his  grave,  is  shameful.  You  should 
have  respect  for  his  memory,  if  for  nothing  else. 
What  an  example  of  faith,  of  piety,  of  goodness, 
was  thrown  away  upon  you  4p  that  excellent 


man's  life  ;  how  you  disgrace  his  teaching ;  how 
you  insult — " 

"That  will  do,  sir,"  said  Carlyon,  coldly, 
raising  irimself  with  dilliculty  from  the  sofa;  "I 
congratulate  you  upon  having  discovered  a 
metiiod  for  shntting  my  mouth.  1  can  walk 
alone,  sir,  thank  you,  very  well." 

So  saying  he  seized  his  hat  and  staggered  to 
the  door.  His  countenance  wore  the  same  lead- 
en hue  as  when  he  lay  u])on  the  beach,  an  hour 
or  so  ago,  just  rescued  from  the  sea,  but  it  had 
not  the  same  vacant  expression.  He  looked 
angry,  and  pained,  but  also  something  more  and 
worse.  If  it  had  been  possible  in  a  man  of  such 
calibre — both  mental  and  bodily — as  John  Carl- 
yon, one  would  have  said  that  he  looked  panic- 
stricken. 

"lam  sorr\'," began  the  doctor,  pleadingly ; 
"it  was  cruel  and  unfair,  I  own." 

But  holding  uj)  one  hand  as  though  to  depre- 
cate all  farther  talk,  Carlyon  groped  about  the 
door  with  the  other,  and  presently  getting  it 
open,  felt  his  way  along  the  passage  like  a  blind 
man,  and  so  into  the  street,  and  took  his  way 
toward  home. 

"I  am  a  beast,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carstairs, 
self-reproachfully,  standing  in  his  little  porch 
and  watching  his  departing  patient  move  slowly 
and  painfully  away.  "  And  the  beast  which  I 
am  is  an  ass.  I  have  done  him  more  harm  than 
good  in  every  way.  Matters  could  scarcely  have 
been  worse,  had  I  told  him  the  truth  at  once,  al- 
though he  did  say  it  would  have  '  given  him  a 
turn,'  and  yet  how  could  I  have  known  that  the 
mention  of  his  father  would  have  put  him  into 
such  a  state !  it  was  a  mercy  he  did  not  drop 
down  dead  at  my  very  door.  Such  a  gallant, 
honest  fellow,  too !  He  will  be  a  loss  to  the 
world,  although,  may  be,  the  world,  as  he  says, 
will  be  no  loss  to  him  :  but  as  for  you,  Robert 
Augustus  Carstairs,  F.R.C.S.,  and  late  overseer 
of  this  parish,  when  your  turn  comes  to  be  grass- 
ed over,  you  will  be  a  loss  to  nobody,  being  an 
ass." 


CHAPTER   V. 


COMING      HOME. 


The  short,  yet  straggling  street  of  the  village 
of  Mellor  was  always  very  quiet.  There  was 
but  little  traffic  through  it,  and  still  less  in  it,  for 
it  contained  but  one  shop,  full  indeed  of  the 
most  various  commodities,  from  Bath  note-paper 
to  lamp-black,  from  Dutch  cheese  to  Lancashire 
clogs,  but  not  much  frequented  by  customers. 
Most  people  stopped  at  the  window,  and  tui'ned 
away  again  after  dropping  their  letters  into  the 
slit  beneath  it,  for  it  was  also  the  post-office  ; 
and  there  were  not  many  folks  even  to  post  let- 
ters at  Mellor.  The  houses  on  the  north  side 
of  the  street,  which  was  built  on  a  hill,  made  the 
most  show,  standing  back  from  the  road,  and  at 
a  considerable  elevation  above  it,  with  neat  little 
gardens,  spread  apron-wise  before  them ;  eye- 
shot from  the  windows  of  these  dwellings  flew 


IG 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


over  the  heads  of  passers-by.  On  the  south  side 
the  houses  all  looked  out  to  seaward  over  un- 
seen gardens  of  their  own,  and  turned  their 
backs  to  the  road,  se  that  it  was  quite  possible, 
providing  only  that  he  escaped  the  notice  of  the 
lynx-eyed  ]iost-niistress,  for  a  wayfarer,  however 
remarkable  in  his  personal  ai)pcarance,  to  pass 
through  Mellor  street  without  being  observed. 
During  the  dispatch  of  the  mails  at  5  p.  m.,  a 
ritualist  in  full  vestments,  or  the  Lord  Chief- 
Justice  of  the  Queen's  Bench,  in  wig  and  gown, 
might  have  very  possibly  made  a  progress 
through  it  from  end  to  end  (if  only  they  main- 
tained a  dignified  silence),  without  any  Mellor- 
ite  being  the  wiser. 

It  was  about  5  p.  M.  that  John  Carlyon  took 
his  way  through  Mellor,  and  that  he  was  not 
spoken  with  by  any  one  after  what  had  recently 
occurred  was  a  pretty  convincing  proof  that  he 
was  not  seen.  The  village  inn,  indeed,  had 
more  than  its  usual  fringe  of  idlers  about  it,  ea- 
gerly discussing  the  very  occurrence  in  which  he 
had  so  distinguished  himself;  but  it  stood  apart 
from  the  road,  on  a  little  plateau  of  its  own,  and 
was  avoided  altogether  by  those  who  took  the 
turning  to  the  right  which  led  to  Mellor  Church. 
Mr.  Carlyon  took  this  way.  The  church  tower, 
being  very  highly  placed,  could  be  seen  far  out 
at  sea,  and  was  even  used  as  a  landmark  for 
ships.  The  church-yard  itself  stood  much  above 
the  village,  and,  indeed,  was  the  highest  point 
save  Greycrags  (whereon  the  house  occupied  by 
the  Crawfords  was  situated,  and  after  which  it 
was  named),  within  some  miles  of  Mellor ;  it 
was  therefore  free  from  all  overlookers.  Some- 
thing tempted  him,  as  he  passed  by,  to  push 
open  the  wicket  and  enter  that  great  green  rest- 
ing-chamber,  where  no  sleeper  turned  uneasily 
on  his  pillow,  or  longed  with  impatience  for  the 
morning.  Verj'  many  generations  lay  beneath 
those  grassy  mounds,  or  in  the  vaults  of  the  old 
church,  wliich  was  almost  coeval  with  the  abbey, 
the  ruins  of  which  could  be  seen  from  where  he 
stood.  Anotiier  phase  of  Christianity  had  suc- 
ceeded to  the  ancient  faith,  but  little  change  had 
been  made  in  externals.  Two  stone  images  in 
lichen-covered  niches  stood  on  either  side  the 
porch,  but  time  or  the  sea-winds  had  deprived 
them  of  all  recognizable  features ;  they  might 
be  meant  to  represent  saints  or  demons.  The 
stoup  for  holy  water  still  had  its  place  in  the  wall. 
Within  lay  many  a  cross-legged  crusader — 

Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
or 

Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails ; 

the  dead  representatives  of  a  dead  form  of  creed, 
lying,  unargumentatively  enough,  beside  Prot- 
estant lords  of  the  manor,  and  other  modern 
worthies  of  high  degree.  In  the  superior  sanc- 
tity of  the  chancel,  under  what  looked  like  a 
four-post  bedstead  of  marble,  hung  with  'scutch- 
eons, and  sculptured  with  heraldic  emblems,  re- 
posed the  long  line  of  ancestors  of  Charles,  Earl 
Disney,  whose  anxiety  for  the  preservation  of 
game  had  been  so  recently  sympathized  with 
from  that  moth-eaten  pulpit. 


"All  silent  and  all  damned,"  quoted  Carlyon, 
thoughtfully,  as  he  gazed  through  the  iron  gate 
which  suffered  the  cool  evening  air  to  purify  this 
sanctuary,  while  it  kept  more  substantial  inirud- 
crs  out.  "There  is  nobody  at  least  to  contra- 
dict it.  What  thousands  of  years  of  death  have^ 
these  good  folks  to  tell  of,  yet  not  an  hour's  ex- 
perience will  the  greatest  gossip  among  them 
reveal." 

He  turned  from  the  dark  porch,  where  a  cer- 
tain musty  flavor  of  mortality  seemed  to  make 
itself  a])parent,  and  set  his  face  to  the  sea-breeze, 
fresh  as  on  tiie  day  when  it  first  blew  from  the 
gates  of  the  sun. 

The  wavy  west  was  one  great  field  of  gold, 
with  just  a  ri])])le  upon  it  like  corn  at  harvest- 
time  that  smiles  to  find  the  sovereign  wind  its 
wooer.  A  few  white  sails  flecked  its  glittering 
surface,  and  a  faint  black  line  of  smoke  above 
one  outgoing  steamship  blurred  the  red  sky. 
From  the  village  beneath  thin  blue  smoke  as- 
cended for  a  little  way,  till  it  mixed  with  the 
bluer  air  and  was  lost ;  and  far  off,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  bay,  wreaths  of  grey  marked  the  un- 
seen spots  where  man  was  living  and  laboring. 
Here  was  death — yonder  was  life ;  you  seemed 
to  step  from  one  to  the  other  at  a  single  stride. 
Both  hushed,  for  not  a  sound  could  be  heard, 
save  the  dreamy  lap  of  the  sea,  less  like  sound 
than  silcr.ce  ;  yet  the  one  so  chill  and  hopeless, 
the  otiier  so  bright  and  busy! 

"There  seems  certainly  something  in  what 
Carstairs  says,"  mused  Carlyon;  "that  is,  at 
times.  To  lie  here  forever,  first  bones,  then 
dust,  has  truly  little  charm  ;  and  if  it  be  so, 
death  is  a  bathos,  and  the  scheme  of  creation — 
that  is  the  proper  phrase,  I  believe — a  total  fail- 
ure.    Perhaps  it  is ;  who  knows  ?" 

It  was  not,  however,  for  purposes  of  philo- 
sophic speculation  that  the  speaker  had  sought 
this  place  of  tombs ;  and  the  mention  of  Mr. 
Carstairs  seemed  to  remind  him,  although  in- 
deed he  had  not  forgotten  it,  but  purposely  pro- 
crastinated the  matter,  of  what  had  attracted 
him  thither.  He  walked  with  a  quick  step  to- 
ward a  secluded  corner  of  the  church-yard,  and 
black  with  the  shadow  of  an  enormous  yew; 
within  a  square  of  small  stone  pillars,  not  unlike 
mile-stones,  and  connected  by  iron  chains,  stood 
a  huge  monument  of  granite. 

"Thanks  to  him,  I  have  never  set  foot  here 
save  last  Sunday,  since  the  day  we  buried  him  ; 
so  this  will  be  new  to  me,"  muttered  the  visitor, 
as  he  held  aside  a  layer  of  yew  and  let  the  stin- 
shine  in  upon  the  gilded  letters  of  the  inscrip- 
tion, now  fast  fading  and  almost  effaced — 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

RALPH  CARLYON, 

or  WOODLEES, 

A  DEPtJTY  LIEUTENANT  FOK  TIIE   COrNTT 

AND  JUSTICE   OF   THE   PEACE, 

A  Prudent  Father, 

A  Pattern  Husband, 

A  Perfect  Christian, 

He  closed  a  Lift  o/Pkti/,  Feb.  IXth,  1840. 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


17 


"  Those  arc  Jlt'p's  ailjectives,"  muttcrctl  the 
intniiler,  ;,'iinily;  "but  what  is  tliis  in  Latin? 
I  did  not  give  her  credit  for  the  chissics. 

'Gone  to  join  tlie  innjority.' 
That  was  not  Meg's,  I'm  sure.  Ah  !  I  remem- 
ber now.  He  told  nie  something  of  his  wish  to 
have  a  certain  sentence  placed  above  his  grave, 
and  I — thinking  it  was  some  pious  text — bade 
her  let  it  be  done.  Well,  this  is  truth,  at  all 
events,  and  consistoncy  likewise,  for  this  jjcrfect 
Christian  and  deputy-lieutenant  always  held 
with  the  majority  while  he  was  alive.  But, 
silence,  bitter  tongue.  -De  morluis  nil  nisi  l>o- 
nuin ;  and  moreover,  tiiis  dead  man  was  my  fa- 
ther. Let  me  try  to  feel  pious  and  regretful  at 
tlie  tomb  of  my  jiaront.  Alas !  I  can  not  do  it. 
But  tiie  doctor  was  wrong  too  when  he  accused 
me  of  undutifulness  to  this  man.  His  example 
of  faith  has  not  been  thrown  away  upon  his  son. 
I  have  not  disgraced  his  teaching.  I  Jiace  had 
respect  for  his  memory,  if  for  nothing  else,  heav- 
en knows!  Raljjh  Carlyon,"  murmured  he, 
after  a  pause,  "I  forgive  you  ;  and  if  what  these 
grave-stones  preach  be  true,  God  himself  can 
scaiTC  do  more.  You  have  placed  a  gulf  be- 
tween me  and  all  good  folks,  dead  and  alive, 
as  broad  and  impassable  .as  that  which  is  said 
to  separate  the  wicked  from  the  blessed  in  the 
world  to  come.  Thanks  to  you,  I  have  no  hap- 
piness in  the  present,  nor  hope  in  the  future. 
Forty  years  of  wasted  life  lie  already  behind 
me ;  there  may  be  as  many  still  to  come,  for  I 
am  verv  strong.  Is  it  likely  that  these  will  be 
more  tolerable  than  those  already  passed,  with 
youth  exclianged  for  age,  and  strength  for  weak- 
ness ?  It  is  idle  to  sujjpose  it ;  the  years  must 
soon  draw  nigh  of  which,  even  good  men  say, 
they  find  no  ])leasure  in  them.  I  have  no  friend 
in  either  heaven  or  earth.  My  kindred  wish 
me  dead  that  they  may  possess  my  goods.  They 
are  welcome,  I  am  sure,  although  I  doubt  wheth- 
er old  Robin  and  the  rest  would  like  the  change 
of  dynasty.  I  wish  they  had  had  their  desire 
this  very  day.  I  wish  that  William  Millet  had 
been  a  little  less  ready  with  his  rope.  But  no  ; 
I  don't  say  that,  for  then  there  wonld  have  been 
an  angel  less  in  the  world — Agnes  Crawford. 
I  believe  in  angels  so  far.  It  would  have  been 
worse  for  others,  if  better  for  me.  She  is  ev- 
ery body's  friend — every  body's,  that  is,  who  is 
wretched — except  mine.  They  have  told  her 
lies  about  me  without  doubt,  and  even  the  truth 
would  make  her  shrink  from  me  as  she  never 
shrinks  from  mere  pestilence  and  contagion." 

He  was  leaning  over  the  wicket  gate  and  look- 
ing northward,  where  Greycrags,  clothed  and 
crowned  with  its  verdant  and  noble  trees,  rose 
from  the  margin  of  its  little  bay  like  one  green 
tower. 

"No  woman  loves  me,  or  will  ever  love  me, 
being  what  I  am,"  he  went  on  ;  "and  least  of 
all,  one  like  her."  A  far-off  noise — the  beat 
of  a  horse's  hoof— struck  upon  his  ear.  "  Even 
my  horse  is  lost;  the  only  living  thing  that 
cared  for  me.  Poor  Bcrild  !  you  died  doing 
your  dutv,  good  nag,  and  if  there  be  a  heaven 
B 


for  horses  —  why,  surely  I  should  know  that 
footfall  ;  and  unless  there  are  equine  ghosts 
that  iiaunt  the  way  to  their  late  stables,  this  is 
my  own  Red  Berild  coming  home!" 

He  passed  swiftly  through  the  gate,  and, 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  clapjjed 
his  hands  together  and  whistled  shrilly.  Im- 
mediately the  trotting  sound  was  exchanged 
for  a  canter ;  and  as  the  coming  steed  turned 
the  corner  and  came  within  sight,  a  faint  but 
joyful  whinny  proclaimed  his  recognition  of 
his  master.  He  never  stopped  till  he  had  his 
nose  in  his  human  friend's  hand,  and  was  rub- 
bing his  tall,  stiff  ear  against  liio  bosom.  There 
was  nothing  wrong  with  him,  as  Carlyon's 
anxious  inspection  soon  discovered ;  but  he 
had  evidently  gone  through  great  exertions. 
His  heaving  flanks  were  dripping  as  much  with 
sweat  and  foam  as  with  salt  water ;  his  broken 
bridle  trailed  upon  the  ground  ;  his  saddle  was 
half  turned  round;  his  legs  were  covered  with 
black  mud  and  sand  up  to  the  knees. 

It  was  a  touching  sight  to  see  the  meeting 
between  those  two  old  friends. 
"My  brave  Berild!"  cried  one. 
And  the  other,  though  he  could  not  speak, 
answered,  "  Dear  master  !"  with  his  eyes. 

Then  setting  the  saddle  straight,  and  knot- 
ting  the  bridle,  so  that  his  favorite  should  not 
be  incommoded,  John  Carlyon  once  more  re- 
sumed his  way  toward  home,  man  and  horse 
walking  together  side  by  side.  The  former 
seemed  for  the  time  to  have  recovered  his  usu- 
al spirits,  whistling  snatches  of  melody,  or 
even  occasionally  trolling  out  a  patchwork  of 
song ;  but  as  he  began  to  descend  the  other 
side  of  the  long  hill,  and  to  lose  sight  of  all 
the  glorious  landscape,  and  of  Greycrags  with 
the  rest,  his  depression  returned. 

Woodlees  was  not  a  place  to  create  high 
spirits.  It  was  a  fine  mansion,  with  a  small 
deer-park  attached  to  it,  and  no  less  than  three 
terraced  gardens.  But  the  house  itself  was  in 
a  hollow.  Notwithstanding  that  the  sea  lay  so 
near,  not  a  breath  of  its  fresh  clear  air  ever 
visited  it.  It  seemed  to  have  an  atmosphere  of 
its  own,  odorous  indeed,  but  faint  and  oppress- 
ive, in  which*  it  was  an  effort  to  breathe.  For 
"size  and  antiquity,  it  was  an  edifice  of  which 
the  proprietor  might  reasonably  (if  there  is  any 
reason  in  such  pride)  be  proud.  The  hall,  with 
its  huge  painted  windows  —  the  sjioil,  it  was 
said,  of  Mellor  Abbey — and  splendidly  carved 
chimney-piece,  was  undoubtedly  very  fine,  if 
somewhat  dim  and  cheerless.  The  grand  stair- 
case of  polished  oak  had  for  its  every  alternate 
baluster  a  twisted  column  of  vine  or  briony,  but 
then  it  was  a  very  sunshiny  day  on  which  they 
could  be  seen  without  a  candle.  There  were 
only  two  cheerful  rooms  in  the  whole  house. 
One,  the  large  drawing-room,  now  never  used, 
the  French  windows  whereof  opened  immedi- 
ately upon  the  Rosary,  and  over  the  huge  fire- 
place of  which  was  a  vast  sheet  of  glass,  so 
that  you  could  sit  in  the  warm  glow  and  watch 
the  snow-flakes  whiten  the  broad  carriage  drive, 


li 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


and  deck  the  evergreens  in  bridal  riiiment.  The 
other,  the  octagon  chamber  in  the  tower,  Joiin 
Carlyon's  smoking-room,  whence  could  be  seen 
Mellor  Church  and  Greycrags,  and,  far  to  the 
south,  a  strip  of  distant  sea  that  was  never  sand. 

Mr.  Carlyou  made  straight  for  the  stables, 
and  saw  the  wants  of  his  four-footed  friend  at- 
tended to  with  liis  own  eyes,  then  strolled 
across  the  garden  toward  the  house.  At  the 
open  front  door  stood  an  old  man  with  a  scared 
face. 

'•  God  'a  mercy,  Mister  John  !  what  is  it 
now?" 

"AVhat  is  what  now,  Robin?"  echoed  the 
squire,  in  an  amused  tone. 

"Why,  your  masquerading,  sir!" 

"  Oh  yes !  I  had  forgotten.  I  could  not 
think  what  made  them  stare  so  in  tlic  stable. 
I  liavc  got  Mr.  Carstairs's  clothes  on,  that's  all ; 
and  they  don't  fit." 

"  Well,  well,  sir,  you  are  the  squire  now ; 
you  do  "is  you  please.  But  I  don't  think  my 
old  master  would  ever  have  exchanged  clothes 
■with  the  parish  doctor." 

"I  dare  say  not,"  returned  Carlyon,  dryly. 
Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added,  laying  bis  hand 
upon  the  old  man's  shoulder,  "  I  know  it  is  un- 
dignified, Robin  ;  but  I  could  not  help  it.  Red 
Berild  and  I  were  caught  by  the  sea,  and  so 
got  wet  through.  Mr.  Carstairs  was  good 
enough  to  rig  me  out." 

"Ah  !"  sighed  the  butler,  shaking  his  white 
head  as  he  made  room  for  the  squire  to  pass  in, 
"my  old  master  never  would  have  been  caught 
by  the  sea,  not  he." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  COUPLE  OP  VISITORS. 

While  Mr.  Carlyon  was  yet  arranging  him- 
self in  garments  more  adapted  to  his  six-feet- 
three  of  bone  and  muscle  than  the  habiliments  , 
of  the  little  doctor,  Robin  came  up  to  say  that  i 
two  gentlemen  were  waiting  for  him  down  stairs  1 
— Mr.  Crawford  and  Mr.  Richard  Crawford. 

"I  will  be  down  directly,"  sai^l  the  squire, 
with  a  flush  of  pleasure;  "into  which  room 
have  you  jhown  them  ?" 

"Into  the  master's  room,  of  course,  Mi. 
John.     Where  else?"  inquired  the  domestic. 

■"Very  good,  Robin,"  was  the  quick  reply. 

John  Carlyon  particularly  disliked  that  room, 
and  the  old  butler  knew  it;  but  at  t!  e  same 
time  thought  it  his  duty  to  combat  so  unnatu- 
ral an  avei'sion.  It  had  been  the  favorite  cham- 
ber of  John's  father,  and  ought,  one  may  sup- 
pose, to  have  been  agreeable  to  his  son  on  that 
account.  Otherwise,  it  had  certainly  few  at- 
tractions of  its  own,  being  the  gloomiest  of  all 
the  reception-rooms.  A  small  apartment  shut 
■within  an  angle  of  the  building,  into  whose 
old-fashioned,  diamono  shaped  panes  the  sun 
rarely  peeped,  and  when  it  did  so,  could  throw 
no  cheerful  gleam  upon  the  cedarn  wainscot, 
or  the  few  family  pictures  disposed — and  not 


happily  disposed  —  upon  its  sombre  surface. 
It  seemed  as  though  the  old  gentleman  had 
preferred  the  company  of  the  worst  favored 
among  all  his  anccstors^  with  one  exception. 
This  was  the  full-length  portrait  of  a  young 
girl,  whose  short- waisted  attire  and  tower-like 
arrangement  of  her  long  fair  hair,  could  not 
deprive  her  of  the  admiration  due  to  great  nat- 
ural beauty.  Seldom  as  it  was  that  a  sun- 
beam struggled  in  so  far,  when  it  did  reach 
tliat  exquisite  face  the  whole  room  was  lit  up 
with  its  loveliness.  Those  luxuriant  locks 
glittered  as  though  gold  dust — the  meretricious 
fashion  of  a  much  later  date — had  been  scat- 
tered upon  them  ;  the  peach-like  checks  glow- 
ed with  bashful  innocence ;  the  blue  eyes  gazed 
at  you  with  a  tender  simplicity  that  was  inex- 
pressibly touching.  This  portrait  faced  the 
fire-place  ;  and  when  the  fitful  gleams  of  flame 
fell  upon  it,  the  mobile  features  seemed  really 
instinct  with  life.  Nothing  else  was  bright  in 
this  room,  except  the  silver  hilts  of  a  yataghan 
and  dagger  that  hung  over  the  chimne3'-piece, 
and  were  kept  untarnished  by  the  butler's  care- 
ful fingers.  They  had  been  brought  by  his  old 
master  from  the  East,  where  he  had  traveled 
(not  without  some  strange  adventures,  it  was 
whispered,  in  which  those  mysterious  weapons 
had  borne  their  part)  in  his  far  back  youth. 
Here,  day  after  day,  for  many  weary  years  the 
old  man  had  sat,  too  feeble  to  stir  abroad  ;  and 
here,  night  after  night,  had  lain  when  near  to 
death.  At  last,  upon  a  sofa  bed,  witli  his  back 
to  the  picture  and  liis  face  to  the  fire,  he  had 
died  here.  Perhaps  it  was  its  association  w'ith 
that  last  event  which  had  made  the  cedar  cham- 
ber distasteful  to  his  son. 

However,  John  Carlyon  now  entered  it  with 
a  winning  smile,  and  a  courteous  greeting  for 
his  two  unexpected  guests.  With  one  of  these, 
Richard  Crawford,  we  are  already  acquainted  ; 
the  other,  his  uncle,  was  a  very  tall  old  man, 
of  distinguished  appearance  ;  one,  who,  though 
manifestly  hale  and  vigorous,  and  as  upright 
as  a  I\Iay-pole,  gave  the  idea  of  extreme  age, 
unless  some  sorrow  had  done  the  work  of  years 
in  emaciating  his  lengthy  limbs,  and  deejicning 
the  caverns  of  his  eyes.  These  last  were  very 
bright  and  black,  and  shot  from  under  thick, 
white  eyebrows  one  swift,  suspicious  look  as 
the  squire  entered,  then  gazed  upon  him  frank- 
ly and  gratefully  enough. 

"This  is  my  uncle,  Mr.  Carlyon,"  said  the 
younger  of  the  two  visitors,  "come  in  person 
to  thank  you  for  your  noble  devotion  in  saving 
my  dear  cousin — " 

"Nay,  Richard,"  interposed  the  old  gentle- 
man, with  dignity,  and  stretching  forth  an  arm 
almost  as  long  as  Mr.  Carlyon's  own,  though 
wasted  to  one-half  its  thickness,  "  I  must  thank 
him  for  titat  myself.  Ion  have  preserved  to  me, 
sir,  the  dearest  thing  left  to  me  in  this  world : 
my  beloved  and  only  daughter.  Accejjt  the 
gratitude  of  one  who,  but  for  you,  would  have  ' 
found  the  little  remnant  of  life  he  has  still  to 
live  very  miserable  and  barren." 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


19 


"  I  am  most  pleased,  Mr.  Crawford,"  an- 
swered the  scjuire,  returning  tlic  pressure  of 
the  other's  long,  thin  fingers,  "to  have  been 
the  instrument  of  saving,  not  only  to  yourself, 
but  to  the  many  who  liave  experienced  her  un- 
selfish benevolence,  a  life  so  priceless  as  Miss 
Crawford's.  And  for  you,  sir,"  here  he  turned 
to  the  young  man,  who  was  giving  utterance  to 
certain  conventional  expressions  of  gratitude 
upon  his  own  behalf,  "  I  am  sincerely  glad  to 
have  been  able  to  have  given  you  a  helping 
hand  in  a  difliculty  that  certainly  might  have 
been  serious." 

"Serious!"  observed  the  old  gentleman, 
"why,  my  daughter  tells  me  that  death  stared 
her  in  the  fiiee." 

"  And  so  it  did,  uncle,"  answered  Mr. 
Richard,  frankly.  "  Mr.  Carlyon  makes  liglit 
of  the  matter,  only  because  he  is  used  to  risk 
his  own  life  for  strangers.  Directly  Agnes  saw 
him  she  cried,  '  There  is  the  man  to  save  us, 
if  man  can  do  it !'  Twice  before,  as  I  hear, 
upon  those  very  sands — " 

"Hush,  hush,  my  dear  young  sir,"  inter- 
rupted Carlyon,  hastily ;  "  your  good-will  makes 
you  exaggerate  matters,  or  else  you  have  been 
misinformed.  In  the  first  place,  !Miss  Agnes 
Crawford  is  not  a  stranger  to  any  one  who 
lives  near  Mellor,  and  who  has  ears  to  listen 
to  good  report ;  and,  secondly,  possessing  unu- 
sual advantages  in  my  excellent  steed,  I  should 
have  been  base  indeed  not  to  have  used  them 
on  so  critical  an  occasion.  Had  I  done  other- 
wise, I  do  assure  you,  it  would  have  been  the 
act  of  a  coward,"  added  he,  turning  toward  his 
elder  visitor  ;  "  and  we  men  who  are  over  six 
feet  high  should  at  least  be  courageous,  should 
we  not  ?" 

Up  to  this  time,  in  spite  of  his  host's  invitation 
to  be  seated,  Mr.  Crawford  had  been  standing, 
hat  in  hand,  as  though  his  visit  was  intended 
to  be  of  the  shortest ;  but  at  these  w-ordshe  sank 
slowly  down  upon  the  nearest  chair,  as  though 
he  had  been  pushed  into  it  by  main  force,  and 
in  spite  of  himself.  His  long  limbs  trembled  as 
with  tl)e  palsy  ;  and  his  thin  face  grew  more  wan 
and  white  than  ever,  except  that  in  the  centre 
of  each  hollow  cheek  there  w-as  a  spot  of  burning 
red.  His  ashen  lips  endeavored  in  vain  to  ar- 
ticulate. 

"Good  heavens!  your  uncle  is  ill,"  cri3d 
Carlyon,  pulling  the  bell  with  yiolence  ;  "  whai 
is  it  he  should  take?  —  Wine — brandy? — 
ypeak!" 

But  before  Richard  could  reply,  the  old  man 
answered  for  himself,  in  tolerably  firm  tones, 
that  he  was  better  now  and  needed  no  refresh- 
ment. 

"  The  fact  is,  my  dear  Mr.  Carlyon,  this  in- 
terview has  a  little  unmanned  me.  I  am  vci-y 
old,  you  see ;  and  for  these  many  years  1  have 
lived  a  hermit's  life.  The  sight  of  a  stranger  is 
quite  a  sliock  to  me.  Thank  you :  since  the 
brandy  has  come,  I  will  take  a  little." 

But  Carlyon  observed  that  he  scarcely  put  his 
lips  to  tho  glivss,  and  that  while  he  spoke  his 


bright  eyesonce  more  flashed  forth  such  glances 
of  anger  and  suspicion  as  certainly  showed  no 
lack  of  vital  power. 

"  There,  I  am  better  now  already,"  resumed 
Mr.  Crawford,  with  cheerfulness.  "  Certainly, 
if  there  is  an  elixir  viUc  for  tl>e  old  at  all  it  is 
Frencli  brandy.  I  have  some  in  my  cellar  at 
Greycrags — and  I  trust  you  will  come  and  dine 
with  us  shortly,  and  take  a  petil  verre  of  it  aft- 
er dinner — which  numbers  as  many  years  in 
bottle  as  I  myself  have  been  in  the  flesh ;  in 
other  words,  it  is  three-quarters  of  a  century  old." 

"  That  would  be  a  great  attraction,"  said  Mr. 
Carlyon,  gallantly,  "to  any  other  house  but 
Greycrags,  which,  however,  possesses  a  much 
more  priceless  treasure.  You  have  so  over- 
whelmed me  with  your  generous,  but  really  ex- 
aggerated, gratitude,  that  I  have  not  yet  been 
able  to  ask  after  ^Hss  Agnes  herself.  I  trust 
she  has  escaped  all  consequences  of  her  late  ad- 
venture." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  may  say,  that,  except  for  a 
little  fatigue,  which  it  is  only  natural  she  should 
feel  after  having  gone  through  so  much  excite- 
ment, my  daughter  is  none  the  worse.  She  is 
used  to  cold,  and  even  to  getting  wet  through, 
in  her  perambulations  among  the  poor.  Rich- 
ard and  she  walked  home  at  their  best  pace,  so 
she  has  not  felt  even  a  chill.  She  was  exceed- 
ingly anxious,  however,  upon  your  account ;  and 
indeed,  from  her  statement,  I  scarcely  hoped  to 
find  you  so  completely  yourself  again.  So,  as 
soon  as  Richard  was  ready,  he  and  I  drove  to 
Mr.  Carstairs's  house,  and  finding  you  had  gone 
home,  ventured  to  follow  you  hither.  We  should 
have  welcomed  a  much  less  valid  excuse  I  am 
sure.  What  a  charming  place  is  this  Woodlees 
of  yours. " 

"  It  is  picturesque,"  said  Carlyon,  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  "viewed  from  without;  but  a 
lonely  and  cheerless  place  to  live  in. " 

"That  must  be  the  fault  of  its  proprietor, 
surely,"  observed  Mr.  Crawford  with  a  meaning 
smile. 

"No,  sir,  his  misfortune,"  returned  the  other 
dryly.  "However,  my  butler  seems  to  have 
resolved  you  should  be  as  unfavorably  impressed 
as  possible,  by  showing  you  into  this  sombre 
room." 

"  Ah !  there  I  diflfer  from  you,"  answered  the 
old  gentleman.  "ZPov  my  part,  I  like  gloom. 
The  worst  of  Greycrags  is,  that  it  is  so  exceed- 
ingly light ;  its  uiiiform  cheerfulness  oppresses 
one  like  a  too  lively  talker — a  companion  who 
is  always  in  high  spirits.  In  the  whole  house 
there  is  ao  quiet  little  den  like  this,  where  an 
old  man  may  sulk  by  himself  out  of  the  sunshine. 
Not,  however,  that  any  room  can  be  gloomy  wilh 
such  a  glorious  picture  as  that  in  it.  Richard 
and  I  were  agreeing,  befc  re  you  came  down,  that 
we  had  never  seen  a  more  charming  face  on  c.xn- 
vas.  Woodlees  could  not  have  been  so  lonely 
at  one  time,  if,  as  I  conjecture,  that  beautiful 
creature  was  once  its  mistress." 

John  Carlyon  bowed  gravely. 

"  What  tenderness  of  expression,  Richard,  is 


20 


CARLTON'S  YEAR. 


there  not  ?"  continued  the  old  man,  rising  and 
a])proaching  the  picture.  "  It  is  almost  jjainfiil 
in  its  pathos.  Now,  wliat  epoch  can  this  lady 
have  adorned  ?— not  your  own,  of  course,  and 
scarcely  mine." 

"  Slie  was  my  mother,  sir,"  observed  Mr. 
Carlyon,  dryly ;  then,  after  a  pause,  he  added,  "  I 
should  be  sorry,  Mr.  Crawford,  for  you  to  carry 
away  with  you  an  impression  of  Woodlees  de- 
rived from  this  ajjartment  only.  Let  me  per- 
suade you  to  step  up  so  far  as  the  tower  room, 
where  perhaps  you  will  take  a  cigar." 

With  these  words  he  opened  the  door  like  one 
wlio  would  have  no  denial. 

"  My  smoking-days  are  over,"  replied  tlieold 
gentleman,  smiling  ;  "  I  am  a  worn-out  profligate 
in  that  way,  and  can  only  partake  of  the  mere 
flavor  of  vice  from  the  snuff-box :  yet  I  will  glad- 
ly visit  your  sanctum.  But  what  a  long  way 
up  it  is  ;  why,  it's  quite  an  eyrie." 

"Yes,  and  here  I  sit,  a  wretched,  middle-aged 
l)ird,  all  alone  and  moulting." 

"  Jt  should  be  a  nest  full  of  eaglets  ;  the  very 
room  for  a  nursery,  sir,"  obsei-ved  Mr.  Crawford, 
unheeding  the  other's  remark,  and  standing  in 
the  centre  of  the  spacious  chamber  with  its  three 
huge  windows.  "What  a  beautiful  prospect! 
See,  Richard,  yonder  is  Grey  crags.  My  daugh- 
ter and  I  have  often  wondered,  Mr.  Carlyon,  to 
what  use  this  tower  which  never  shows  a  candle 
was  put,  and  I  think  we  must  have  come  to  the 
right  conclusion,  to  judge  at  least  by  this  tele- 
scope." He  touched  a  large  instrument  stand- 
ing on  a  brass  tripod  and  turning  on  a  pivot. 
"This  is  your  observatory,  is  it  not?  You  sit 
in  the  dark  here  and  watch  the  stars." 

"Not  I,"  returned  Mr.  Carlyon,  smiling; 
"you  give  me  credit  for  much  more  learning 
than  I  possess.  But  to  keep  a  lamp  burning 
here  is  very  dangerous  to  folks  at  sea.  It  has 
been  mistaken  more  than  once  for  the  light  at 
Mellor  Point ;  and  so,  as  I  don't  want  to  hold  the 
candle  in  whose  flame  human  moths  may  shrivel, 
I  sit  here  in  the  dark.  But  as  for  the  stars,  I  do 
not  trouble  myself  with  them." 

"No:  I  see  this  is  not  a  night-glass,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Crawford,  turning  the  instrument  to 
southward.  "But  what  a  field  it  has!  This 
must  have  cost  you  a  great  deal  of  money." 

"I  see  you  are  a  judge  of  telescopes,  Mr. 
Crawford.  Yes,  this  was  really  a  great  piece  of 
extravagance  for  me  to  indulge  in  ;  but  it  forms 
ray  only  amusement.  This  is  my  watch-tower, 
from  whence  I  survey  the  world,  both  land  and 
ocean.  I  can  sit  here  and  sweep  fifty  miles  of 
sea.  The  least  white  speck  out  yonder,  I  can 
recognize,  or  know  at  least  whether  she  is  friend 
or  stranger.  Look  now,  to  that  sail  in  the  south- 
east, hugging  the  land  ;  that  is  his  lordship's 
yacht,  the  San  Sonci — very  much  misnamed,  by 
the  bye,  if  all  tales  concerning  her  ])roprietorbe 
true.  One  would  think  she  would  never  weath- 
er the  point  yonder." 

"  She  never  will,"  observed  Mr.  Crawford  de- 
cisively, who  was  watching  her  through  the  tele- 
scope. 


"Not  weather  it!  Permit  me  to  look  one 
moment.  Ah,  you  don't  know  that  yacht.  She 
can  sail  nearer  tlie  wind  than  any  craft  in  the 
bay.      She  is  rounding  it  even  now." 

"  She  is  doing  nothing  of  the  sort,  sir,"  said 
the  old  man,  smiling,  and  tapping  his  snuff-box  ; 
"  look  again." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  sir,"  cried  Carlyon 
much  astonished  ;  "  she  has  missed  stays.  And 
yet  I  would  have  bet  a  hundred  to  one.  What 
an  eye  you  have  :  why  one  would  think  you  had 
been  born  a  sailor. — Good  lieavens  !  Mr.  Rich  - 
ard,  your  uncle  is  taken  ill  again.  It  must  be 
the  tobacco  smoke  ;  I  am  afraid  it"was  wrong  of 
us  to  light  our  cigars." 

Mr.  Carlyon  threw  up  the  north  window,  the 
opposite  one  being  already  open,  and  so  created 
a  strong  draft. 

"  I  am  better  now,"  said  the  old  man,  feebly  ; 
"but  it  was  not  the  tobacco  smoke." 

"  My  uncle  sits  with  me  while  I  smoke,  every 
night,"  said  Richard,  coldly  ;  "  it  must  have  been 
the  exertion  of  coming  up  so  many  stairs." 

"Yes,  that  was  it,  no  doubt,"  added  JNIr. 
Crawford.  "  I  am  a  very  old  man,  Mr.  Carlyon, 
and  you  must  excuse  me." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Crawford,  I  only  reproacii 
myself  for  my  thoughtlessness  in  having  per- 
suaded you — " 

"Don't  mention  it,  don't  mention  it,  I  beg," 
answered  the  old  gentleman,  hurriedly  ;  "  but  if 
you  will  allow  my  nephew  to  ring  for  the  car- 
riage. We  shall  see  you  soon  at  Greycrags,  Mr. 
Carlyon  ?  I  shall  behave  better,  I  hope,  as  your 
host  than  I  have  done  as  your  guest." 

Leaning  heavily  upon  his  nephew's  shoulder, 
he  slowly  descended  the  uncarpeted  and  slippery 
stairs  to  the  great  hall ;  then,  holding  out  a  hand 
cold  and  clammy  as  that  of  a  corpse,  he  bade 
Mr.  Carlyon  adieu,  and  climbed  into  his  car- 
riage. Richard  also  shook  hands  in  as  friendly 
a  manner  as  he  could  assume  ;  but  the  effort  was 
sufficiently  evident. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  don't  like  Mr.  Carlyon," 
observed  the  young  man,  after  a  long  interval  of 
silence,  during  which  they  had  rolled  through 
Mellor. 

"Indeed,"  replied  his  uncle,  in  the  dry  and 
cynical  tone  which  was  habitual  to  him  when 
there  was  no  necessity  for  politeness.  ' '  That  is 
of  no  great  consequence  ;  I  beg,  however,  you 
will  take  pains  to  conceal  your  dislike  while  you 
remain  under  my  roof." 


CHArTER  VII. 


ON   THE  ROAD. 


The  day  after  that  on  which  the  events  which 
we  have  narrated  took  place,  John  Carlvon  took 
a  ride  toward  Mellor ;  although  at  first  he  had 
turned  his  horse's  head  another  way.  On  his 
road  thither  he  met  with  an  interruption. 
Scarce  had  he  left  his  own  gates,  when  he  came 
upon  a  knot  of  cocklers.  just  returned  from  the 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


21 


bay,  and  apparently  making  up  for  their  super- 
stitious abstinence  from  quarrel  on  the  sands* 
by  "  Iiavinj^  it  out"  on  dry  land. 

"  Wiiat  is  the  matter,  my  friends  ?"  eried 
Carlyoii,  good-luimoredly,  interposing  the  huge 
l>ulk.  of  Red  Berild  between  two  combative  ladies 
who  were  contending  for  the  possession  of  some- 
thing tliat  seemed  to  be  all  legs.  "Have  you 
found  the  spokes  of  one  of  I'liaraoh's  chariot 
wheels?" 

At  tliis,  all  burst  into  a  guffaw,  for  Squire 
John  was  an  immense  faj'orite  with  this  class,  and 
his  jokes  always  certain  of  acceptance. 

"Well,  sir,  it  might  be,"  returned  one  ;  "  at 
least,  it's  like  notiiing  as  we  knows  on;  it  seems 
of  no  manner  of  use,  unless  it's  for  pinching 
your  fmgers. " 

"  Halloa !"  observed  the  squire,  examining 
this  curiosity  with  interest.  "  Where  did  you 
find  this?" 

"In  the  middle  of  the  bay,  sir,  stuck  in  the 
sand, "answered  the  same  comely  dame  who  had 
held  contention  with  tlie  spiritual  cobbler  on  the 
previous  evening.  "  It  might  have  floated 
away  but  for  this  great  pad  as  it  had  hold  of, 
just  like  a  crab." 

"My  good  Mrs.  Maekereth,  this  is  a  camp- 
stool,"  explained  INIr.  Carlyon.  "The  pad,  as 
you  call  it,  was  once  a  drawing-book,  the  weight 
of  which,  as  you  say,  without  doubt  prevented 
its  wooden  companion  from  going  to  sea." 

"Lor,  sir,  why  then  they're  Miss  Craw- 
ford's!" ejaculated  one  of  the  late  combatants. 
"I  am  sure  if  we  had  known,  we  should  not 
have  thouglit  of  keeping  them.  Directly  after 
we  have  had  our  sup  o'  tea  we'll  take  them  round 
to  Greycrags,  won't  us,  Dick  ?" 

"  Stop  ;  I  am  going  there  myself  at  once," 
said  Carlyon,  after  a  pause,  "I  will  take  the 
book  with  me.  Here  are  two  half-crowns  for 
your  trouble,  and  I  dare  say  you  will  not  leave 
the  house  empty-handed  when  you  have  taken 
ihe  camp-stool." 

"No,  squire,  that's  not  likely;  God  bless 
her!  yes,  bless  her!"  returned  the  cockier,  di- 
viding the  spoil  with  her  rival.  "Miss  Agnes 
has  as  open  a  hand  as  your  own  ;  long  life  to 
you  botli." 

"  And  I  wish  that  them  hands  was  joined, 
and  that  that  was  your  marriage  blessing," 
observed  Dame  Maekereth,  boldly.  This  good 
lady  was  deficient  in  delicacy  as  some  of  her  sex 
and  age  not  seldom  are.  The  rest  seemed  to 
feel  that  their  spokeswoman  had  gone  a  little  too 
far,  so  her  obsei"vation  elicited  no  mark  of  ad- 
hesion. The  situation  was  rather  embarrass- 
ing for  every  body  but  herself,  who  pleased  as 
a  gunner  who  has  sent  a  shell  {dump  into  the 
enemy's  magazine,  notwithstanding  that  it  has 
destroyed  a  score  or  two  of  innocent  non-combat- 
ants, indulged  in  a  very  hearty  fit  of  laughter. 

"Good-morning,  my  friends,"  said  Carlyon, 
coldly,  moving  slowly  off  with  his  prize  under 


•  The  cocklers  never  quarrel  "  on  the  sands,"  being  un- 
der the  impression  that  if  they  do  r",  the  cockles  will  leave 
their  usual  haunts  with  the  next  tide. 


his  arm.  He  did  not  venture  to  ride  fast,  for 
fear  the  merriment  siiould  at  once  become  gen- 
eral. On  tiie  other  hand,  he  could  not  help 
hearing  the  following  observations  : 

"There,  now,  you  have  angered  the  squire, 
dame  ;  your  tongue  is  just  half  an  inch  longer 
than  it  ought  to  be." 

"Nay,  it's  just  the  right  length,"  returned 
that  indomitable  female  ;  "  and  as  for  angering 
him,  I'll  be  bound  he's  as  pleased  as  I'uneh. 
I  have  not  come  to  my  time  of  life  and  been 
wooed  and  wed  by  three  proper  men — all  in  the 
grave,  poor  souls,  worse  luck — without  knowing 
what  a  man  likes  said  to  him  and  what  he 
don't." 

And  certainly  John  Carlyon  wore  a  smile 
upon  his  face,  as  he  trotted  up  the  hill. 

"  I  think  I  shall  call  now,"  said  he  to  him- 
self; "it  will  be  only  civil  to  take  this  di*aw- 
ing-book."  He  regarded  it  doubtfully  enough, 
though,  and  indeed  it  had  a  rueful  look.  "  One 
might  almost  think  that  Browning  wrote  of  this 
identical  article — 

There  you  have  It,  dry  in  the  sun 

With  all  the  binding  all  of  a  blister, 

And  great  blue  s^pota  where  tlie  color  has  run, 

Aud  reddish  streaks  that  wink  and  glister 

O'er  tlie  page  so  beautifully  yellow. 

What  a  fool  I  am  to  be  taking  it  back  to  her 
in  all  this  hurry  !  Nobody  can  ever  draw  upon 
it  again.  It  has  become  a  mere  blotting-pad,  as 
that  old  woman  called  it.  She  was  right  there, 
though  not  when  she  gave  me  her  good  wishese 
What  is  the  use  of  my  crying  for  the  moon  like 
a  great  baby  ?  Mr.  Crawford  may  be  willing 
enough  to  have  me  for  a  son-in-law,  and,  indeed, 
I  think  he  wished  me  to  see  that.  But  even  if 
her  afiections  are  not  engaged  to  her  handsome 
cousin — and  why  not  ?  he  is  half  my  age  and 
has  twice  my  good  looks  (if,  that  is,  I  have  any 
left)  ;  and  he  has  opportunities  which  I  can  nev- 
er have ;  and  he  loves  her.  I  could  see  that 
when  they  stood  yonder  upon  the  brink  of  their 
grave.  The  young  bantam  showed  no  white 
feather,  that  I  will  say.  And  Agnes — was  ever 
such  a  courage  seen  in  woman  ?  I  remember  a 
l)icture  at  Antwerp,  where  they  are  binding  the 
arms  of  a  beautiful  maiden  before  they  cast  her 
into  some  roaring  flood — a  Christian  martyr,  of 
course — and  she  wore  just  such  an  expression 
as  this  girl  did  last  night  when  the  sea  was 
craving  for  her,  and  death  within  a  hand's 
breadth.  One  would  have  thought  that  she  had 
been  in  heaven  already.  And  it  is  a  saint  like 
this  that  you  have  set  your  mind  upon,  John 
Carlyon,  to  have  for  your  wife,  is  it  ?  No  less 
will  serve  your  infidel  turn,  cli?  But  this  is 
no  Margaret  to  be  won  by  the  aid  of  any  Meph- 
istopheles.  Faust,  Faust,  let  me  recommend 
you  to  stick  to  your  profession  as  a  country  gen- 
tlen)an  ;  hunt,  shoot,  drink,  and  die." 

Here  he  arrived  at  the  fork  of  the  road  lead- 
ing down  from  Mellor  Church,  and  pulled  his 
horse  up. 

"No,"  added  be,  grimly,  after  a  pause,  "I 
will  send  this  book  by  hand,  and  then  be  off  to 


22 


CAELYON'S  YEAR. 


London,  where  I  have  so  many  kind  friends ; 
some  of  them  female  ones.  Then,  when  the  in- 
vitation comes  to  dine  at  Greycrags,  I  shall 
escape  temptation,  or  rather,  what  is  much  less 
l)loasant,  certain  disa]>pointment.  Yes,  I'll  go 
iionie  and  pack  my  jiortniantcau,  no  matter  how 
old  llohin  may  purse  his  lips ;  or  suppose,"  con- 
tinued he,  after  a  jjause,  "  1  let  Red  Berild  de- 
cide the  matter,  as  the  knights  of  old  used  to  do, 
letting  the  reins  fall  on  the  neck  of  their  steed, 
and  following  his  guidance  rather  than  using 
their  own  judgment.  But  then  that  would  be 
scarcely  fair  to — to  the  Greycrags  alternative, 
since  Berild  is  sure  to  take  the  road  to  his  sta- 
bles." 

His  fingers  were  yet  playing  irresolutely  with 
the  bridle,  when  a  young  man  came  suddenly 
upon  liim  from  the  diixction  of  the  village,  walk- 
ing very  fast,  and  with  his  cap  pulled  low  over 
his  brows,  as  though  to  avoid  observation. 

"Ah,  William!"  cried  Carlyon,  cheerily; 
and  it  was  curious  to  note  how  very  cheery  his 
manner  at  once  became,  when  addressing  others, 
no  matter  how  sombre  might  have  been  his  pre- 
vious meditations  while  alone;  "  the  verj'  man 
I  wished  to  see  !" 

"And  I  was  on  my  road  to  Woodlees,  sir," 
returned  the  other,  gravely,  ' '  expressly  to  see 
yon,  Mr.  Carlyon." 

The  voice  was  subdued  and  low  for  a  man's 
voice,  but  with  that  earnestness  and  resolution 
in  its  tone  which  bespeak  deep  convictions  in  the 
speaker. 

"  Coming  to  7«c,  were  you,  William?  well,  I 
am  always  glad  to  see  you,  but  I  think  it  was 
my  business  to  come  to  yon.  When  I  looked 
in  the  glass  this  morning,  and  saw  this  bruise 
on  my  forehead,  I  said  to  myself,  '  I  have  Wil- 
liam Millet  to  thank  for  that. '  The  rope  struck 
me  just  over  the  eyes ;  exactly  the  spot  where 
they  lasso  wild  cattle  on  the  prairies.  There 
must  be  no  touching  of  hats ;  you  must  give  me 
your  hand-my  friend,  this  morning.  John  Car- 
lyon owes  you  his  life." 

The  young  man  hesitated ;  then  diffidently 
reached  out  his  hand  to  meet  the  other's. 

"  You  ai'e  mistaken,  sir,"  said  he,  "  except  in 
the  bare  fact  that  it  was  I  who  threw  the  rope ; 
though  Miss  Agnes  is  good  enough  to  make  as 
much  of  that  as  she  can.  But,  indeed,  so  far 
from  your  being  indebted  to  me  or  mine,  it  was 
through — it  was  through  my  poor  father,  sir," 
(here  the  young  man  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground)  "  that  the  mischance  happened  at  all. 
His  old  enemy  tempted  him  and  he  fell." 

"  That's  religion,  William,  and  therefore  un- 
intelligible," returned  Carlyon  coldly;  "how 
was  it,  in  plain  terms?" 

"  Miss  Agnes  and  her  cousin  went  out  in  fa- 
ther's cart,  to  take  a  sketch  of  the  bay  from  the 
middle  of  the  sands." 

The  speaker  had  enunciated  his  words  with 
painful  difficulty,  notwithstanding  that  he  evi- 
dently strove  to  be  distinct  and  collected,  and 
now  he  came  to  a  full  stop  altogether. 

"  Well,  she  was  on  the  sands  and  sketching," 


said  the  other,  impatiently ;  "  I  know  that  much 
already,  for  here  is  her  drawing-book." 

Under  any  other  circumstances  precise  Wil- 
liam Millet  would  have  smiled  to  hear  a  gentle- 
man and  lady  thus  spoken  of  as  a  single  indi- 
vidual, to  whom  moreover  was  attributed  the  sex 
that  is  ungallantly  stated  to  be  less  worthy  than 
the  masculine  ;  but  he  was  full  of  a  great  trou- 
ble, and  had  no  sense  of  any  thing  else. 

"  It  was  arranged  as  usual,  for  he  had  been 
out,  with  Miss  Agnes  at  least,  on  such  expedi- 
tions before,  that  father  should  call  for  them  on 
his  way  back  to  Mellor,  and  in  good  time.  But 
while  at  the  skeer  he  met  with  an  old  comrade, 
living  on  tlie  other  side  of  the  bay,  who  not  con- 
tent witli  drinking  tlie  devil's  health  on  shore — 
for  that's  what  a  man  does  every  time  he  puts 
his  lips  to  the  wliiskey  bottle — must  needs  take 
out  his  liquor  with  iiini  upon  the  very  sands. 
Sir,  my  father  could  not  resist  it.  God  forgive 
him,  he  drank  till  he  scarce  knew  where  he  was; 
drank  till  he  had  clean  forgotten  his  promise  to 
Miss  Agnes ;  and  at  last,  went  home  with  his 
companion  quite  unconscious  that  death  was 
drawing  nigh  to  the  best  friend  he  had  in  the 
world,  (for  Miss  Agnes  had  been  his  guardian 
angel,  sir),  and  all  through  his  own  fault,  his 
own  folly,  his  own  crime." 

"What  a  cursed  fool  the  man  must  have 
been  !"  cried  Carlyon,  angrily. 

"A  fool,  sir,  indeed,  but  I  trust  not  cursed," 
retui'ned  the  3'oung  man  solemnly.  "  He  is  sor- 
ry enough  now,  is  father.  It  is  terrible  to  see 
his  grief.  But  for  you,  Mr.  Carlyon,  he  feels 
that  he  should  have  been  a  murderer.  He  will 
never  hold  up  his  head  again,  I  doubt." 

"Well,  the  sense  of  the  mischief  he  so  nearly 
wrought,  will  at  least  have  this  good  result,  I 
suppose,  that  Stephen  will  leave  off  drinking." 
said  Carlyon.  "That  will  be  good  coming  out 
of  evil— ^isn't  that  the  phrase  ?" 

"God  grant  it  may  be  so,"  returned  the 
young  man,  without  noticing  the  other's  cynical 
tone  ;  "  and  that  this  awful  lesson  may  save  his 
soul  alive." 

"Humph,"  said  Mr.  Carlj'on,  drj-ly ;  then 
mui'mured  to  himself,  "  How  characteristic  all 
this  is.  To  save  a  soul  that  is  not  worth  sav- 
ing, two  other  folks  are  put  within  a  hairs- 
breadth  of  being  drowned.  And  after  all,  the 
salvation  is  not  with  certainty  effected.  This 
sot  will  probably  have  to  complete  a  murder  be- 
fore that  satisfactory  result  is  achieved.  The 
calmness  with  which  pious  folks  talk  of  sacrific- 
ing the  lives  or  interests  of  innocent  people  to 
benefit  the  spiritual  condition  of  scoundrels  of 
this  sort,  is  most  curious.  It  is  like  making  a 
blood  bath  from  the  veins  of  children  in  order 
that  some  jaded  voluptuary  may  become  reju- 
venescent." 

"I  see  you  are  veiy  angry,  sir,"  resumed  tho ' 
young  man,  humbly ;  "  and  I  am  sure  I  can  not 
blame  you.  You  are  the  third  person  whose 
death  would  have  lain  at  my  father's  door.  It 
was  your  forgiveness  that  I  was  coming  to  ask 
for  him,  sir.    II;  uursn't  come  himself.    I  think 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


23 


he  would  rather  die  than  meet  Miss  Agnes  just 
at  present,  althouj^h  tiie  dear  young  hvdy  was 
very  anxious  to  assure  him  of  lier  pardon.  lie 
can  look  in  no  man's  face.  Oh,  sir,  lie  is  bow- 
ed down  to  tlie  earth  witli  shame  and  sorrow." 

"  Well,  William,  you  may  tell  him  he  has  my 
free  forgiveness  as  far  as  what  he  has  done  to 
me  is  concerned." 

"But  not  as  respects  Miss  Agnes?  You 
will  never  forgive  him  that.  That's  what  you 
mean,  is  it  not,  sir?"  said  the  young  man,  look- 
ing up  with  flushed  checks,  for  the  first  time. 
"  That's  what  they  all  say,  sir.  They  will 
point  at  father  as  tlie  man  that  nearly  murder- 
ed Jliss  Agnes ;  and  yet  she — Mr.  Carlyon,  if 
yon  are  going  up  to  Greycrags,  ask  her  what  s/ie 
tliinks  they  ought  to  do.  What  she  thinks 
you  ought  to  do.  She  says  for  her  part,  that  if 
she  had  been  downright  drowned,  and  that 
through  that  circumstance — " 

"That  will  do,  William,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Cai'lyon,  harshly.  "  Don't  speak  to  me  any 
more,  or  you  will  put  me  in  a  passion,  and  I 
shall  say  things  that  will  hurt  your  feelings. 
You  are  an  excellent  fellow  yourself  (although 
you  are  a  fool  in  some  things)  and  I  have  al- 
ways had  a  good  opinion  of  you.  I  am  bound 
to  be  your  friend  for  life,  for  what  you  did  for 
me  twenty-four  hours  ago,  and  you  may  depend 
upon  me  at  all  times.     Good-bye." 

"  Stop,  sir,  stop  !"  cried  the  young  man,  lay- 
ing his  hand  imploringly  upon  the  other's  bri- 
dle rein,  and  speaking  in  earnest,  but  rajjid 
tones  ;  "  if,  as  you  say,  I  have  deserved  any 
thing  at  your  hands,  let  it  weigh  w^ith  you  now. 
The  man  that  I  speak  of  is  cast  down'  to  the 
very  dust — a  broken  man  without  hope  ;  it  lies 
in  your  example  to  give  him  one  more  chance 
among  bis  fellow-creatures  here  or  not ;  and, 
oh,  sir,  he  is  my  own  father !" 

A  spasm  passed  across  Mr.  Carlyon's  face, 
the  index  of  some  mental  struggle  within,  and 
he  did  not  speak  for  some  moments.  Then, 
with  a  very  gentle  voice,  he  said — "What  a 
good  fellow  you  are,  William.  You  may  tell 
this  man  that  I  forgive  him  from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart,  and  I  will  do  my  best  to  persuade 
others  to  do  so — for  his  son's  sake." 

'•  Thank  you,  sir  ;  though  I  wish  it  had  been 
for  God's  sake,"  returned  the  young  man,  fer- 
vently. "  May  He  prosper  you  in  all  your  un- 
dertakings, and  call  you  home  to  Him  at  last." 

But  John  Carlyon  had  already  touched  Red 
Berild  with  his  heel,  and  did  not  wait  for  that 
reply.  He  had  turned  his  horse's  head  toward 
Greycrags. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

EXPLANATORY. 

The  residence  occupied  by  Mr.  Crawford  (for 
it  was  not  his  own)  was  as  secluded  as  Wood- 
lees  itself,  although  in  a  diflferent  fashion.  It 
was  a  house  that  stood  on  a  hill,  and  yet  it  was 
hid.      Trees   environed  it   almost   wholly,  al- 


though not  growing  so  near  as  to  give  the  out- 
look any  a])])earance  of  gloom.  Curiously  enough, 
the  view  of  the  sea,  an  advantage  generally  so 
desiderated  in  those  parts,  was  altogether  shut  out 
from  the  mansion,  the  principal  rooms  of  which 
faced  the  north-west,  and  commanded  a  grand 
inland  prosjjcct.  In  that  direction,  hill  rose  be- 
hind hill,  imtil  in  the  distance  their  summits 
were  usually  mingled  with  the  clouds  ;  but  on 
very  bright  days  indeed  this  highest  range  stood 
grandly  out  against  the  clear  blue  sky,  and  in  the 
late  autumn,  when  the  snow  began  to  hoar  their 
tops,  afforded  a  really  glorious  si)ectacle.  A  still 
better  view,  of  course,  was  gained  from  the  sum- 
mit of  the  hill  from  wliich  the  house  was  named, 
and  hence  it  had  at  one  time  been  a  great  re- 
sort for  parties  of  pleasure  during  the  summer 
months.  Tiiis,  however,  was  long  ago ;  ever 
since  Mr.  Crawford's  tenancy  of  the  place  a  rigor- 
ous exclusi(jn  of  all  strangers  having  been  main- 
tained. Nay,  it  might  almost  be  added  of  all 
friends,  in  such  solitude  had  the  old  man  lived 
for  tlie  whole  five  years  be  bad  passed  at  Mellor. 
So  far,  therefore,  from  enjoying  its  ancient  repu- 
tation as  a  place  of  amusement,  it  was  now  in 
no  very  pleasant  repute.  Being  shut  out  from 
Greycrags,  its  poorer  neighbors  affected  (like  the 
fox  pronounced  the  uncomeatable  grapes  sour)  to 
shun  it ;  or  perhaps  they  really  had  got  to  be- 
lieve the  tales  which  they  had  themselves  in- 
vented against  its  proprietor  when  he  forbade 
their  making  use  of  his  grounds.  What  did  the 
old  curmudgeon  mean  by  such  conduct?  Peo- 
]jle  did  not  hedge  themselves  in,  and  keep  them-  " 
selves  to  themselves  in  that  sort  of  way  without 
some  very  good  reason  for  it ;  or  rather  for  some 
reason  which  (like  the  spirits  at  the  Mellor 
Arms)  were  strong  without  being  so  very  good. 
What  should  induce  an  old  gentleman  of  sev- 
enty years  of  age,  M'itli  an  only  daughter  of  fifteen 
or  so,  to  come  and  live  at  such  a  place  as  Grey- 
crags— a  man,  one  would  think,  to  whom  society 
would  have  been  most  acceptable,  since  his  sole 
establishment  upon  his  arrival  had  consisted  of 
his  daughter's  attendant,  and  she  a  black  wom- 
an !  He  had  engaged  the  few  other  servants 
liis  simple  mode  of  life  required,  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  dropped  down,  just  as  it  might  be 
(except  that  the  black  woman  was  credited  with 
having  hailed  from  what  I  may  venture  to  call 
the  opposite  locality),  from  the  skies.  It  was 
nothing  less  than  an  insult  to  the  intelligence 
of  his  neighbors,  to  behave  in  this  unaccounta- 
ble manner.  Many  of  them  would  have  for- 
given his  having  closed  the  grounds,  if  they 
could  have  only  found  out  why  he  did  it.  Even 
Mr.  Puce,  the  parson,  a  man  who  had  the  repu- 
tation of  knowing  a  great  deal  of  the  world  (some 
even  said  that  for  a  clergyman  he  had  too  ex- 
clusively given  his  attention  to  it),  could  make 
nothing  of  Mr.  Crawford.  He  had  called,  of 
course,  not  without  some  thirst  for  information, 
and  had  found  the  new-comer  prettj-  much  as 
we  have  seen  him  five  years  afterward  at  Wood- 
lees  ;  with  a  curious  look  of  suspicion  about  him 
just  at  first,  which  wore  off  before  the  visit  was 


It 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


ended.  A  gentleman,  without  doubt ;  Mr.  Puce 
was  ready  to  stake  his  reputation  (not  liis  pro- 
fessional one,  hut  tiie  other)  upon  tliat  fact ;  he 
was  never  mistaken  as  to  whetiicr  a  man  liad 
been  accustomed  to  "  move  in  the  ujjper  circles." 
He  even  expressed  his  opinion  tiiat  Mr.  Craw- 
ford was  one  who  had  been  accustomed  to  liabits 
of  command.  But  this  was  going  a  little  too 
far.  Tlie  gentry  of  the  locality  who  had  not  en- 
joyed the  iJrivilege  of  a  personal  interview  with 
tiie  mysterious  stranger — they  who  had  called 
and  been  "  not-at-homcd,"  and  wiiose  calls  had 
not  been  returned — would  not  credit  that  much. 
It  was  only  natural  that  Mr.  Puce  should  make 
the  most  of  his  advantage ;  but  after  all,  what 
Mr.  Crawford  had  alleged  about  himself  was  : 
probably  correct.  He  had  made  a  competency 
i)y  commerce,  and  very  late  in  life  had  married 
a  young  wife,  who  had  died  in  childbed  with  his 
little  daughter.  At  nearly  the  same  time  his 
only  brother  and  his  wife  had  been  carried  off  ' 
by  fever  in  India,  and  their  infant  sOn  had  been 
consequently  consigned  to  his  charge.  The 
Ayah  who  had  brought  him  overbad  undertaken 
the  mangement  of  both  children ;  and  sei-v- 
ants  of  all  sorts  were  now  required.  Mr.  Puce 
could  doubtless  recommend  some  among  his 
parishioners.  j 

In  short,  Mr.  Crawford  had  been  as  business- 
like as  polite  throughout  the  interview  ;  but  al- 
though thus  fiir  communicative  about  his  own  af- 
fairs— indeed  evidently  anxious  to  ex])lain  his 
position — there  was  nothing  to  be  got  out  of  him 
by  cross-examination.  Attired  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, his  wasted  form  and  cadaverous  features 
fully  bore  out  his  assertion  that  both  as  con- 
cerned health  and  spirits  he  was  totally  incapac- 
itated for  mixing  with  society ;  and  this  he 
hoped  tliat  Mr.  Puce  would  be  so  good  as  to 
make  known  to  any  families  who  might  be 
kind  enough  to  entertain  the  design  of  calling 
upon  him.  He  was  not  even  at  present  well 
enough,  he  added  (and  during  the  last  five 
years  he  hadne'^jer  been  sufficiently  coiivalescent 
to  attempt  the  experiment),  to  attend  public 
worship. 

Indeed,  notwithstanding  the  not  unprom- 
ising character  of  that  first  interview,  the  rec- 
tor had  never  got  speech  with  his  parishioner 
again.  He  had  called  perhaps  half  a  dozen 
times  at  Greycrags  (for  he  was  piqued  at  having 
been  so  foiled  in  his  dexterous  home-thrusts 
and  anxious  to  retrieve  his  reputation  as  a  far- 
sighted  investigator  into  social  millstones),  but 
the  answer  he  constantly  received  was  that  Mr. 
Crawford  did  not  feel  himself  equal  to  see  him 
— that  is,  except  from  a  distance  ;  for  as  the  rec- 
tor walked  away  discomfited  it  sometimes  hap- 
pened that  the  ancient  invalid  was  watching 
ijim  through  his  telescope  from  some  umbrage- 
ous portion  of  the  elevated  grounds.  As  time 
went  on  a  governess  of  mature  years  was  pro- 
vided for  Agnes ;  and  whether  from  the  admira- 
ble "  system"  employed  by  that  lady  (and  quite 
peculiar  to  herself  as  everybody's  "system"  is), 
or  from  her  previous  training  under  some  one 


else,  no  more  satisfactory  female  pupil  was  ever 
turned  out  of  the  educational  workshop.  Her 
acconiidishments,  however,  were  far  outshone 
by  her  kindliness  and  charity.  Even  Mr.  I'uce 
was  compelled  to  confess  that  the  Church  had 
no  such  servant  in  his  jiarish  as  the  daughter  of 
the  recluse  of  Greycrags.  She  was  bumble, 
too,  and  submissive  to  authority ;  not  like  that 
pestilent  Job  Salver,  who  blasjihcmously  con- 
ceived that  he  had  received  the  gift  of  preach- 
ing ;  nor  even  that  William  Millet,  who  carried 
his  religion  into  every  aflair  of  life  like  some 
nursing  mother  who  embarrasses  her  neighbors 
by  considering  the  baby  is  included  in  all  invi- 
tations. 

Agnes  Crawford,  unlike  her  father,  "  went 
out"  (as  the  phrase  goes)  a  good  deal ;  but  not 
into  what  is  generally  called  society.  She  was 
on  excellent  terms  with  the  ladies  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, who  had  no  worse  term  to  api)ly  to  her 
than  "  very  peculiar ;"'  but  she  did  not  often  vis- 
it them.  No  ])erson  (with  any  sense  of  jjropri- 
ety)  could  blame  her  for  that,  since  having  part- 
ed with  her  governess  in  her  eighteenth  year, 
she  had  no  longer  a  "chaperon."  Old  Mrs. 
Ileathcote,  of  Mellor  Lodge,  had  indeed  oflered 
her  services  to  "  the  dear  girl,"  in  this  matter — 
including  some  very  appropriate  personal  prop- 
erties, item:  a  front  as  black  as  the  raven's 
wing  ;  a  splendid  turban,  witii  an  ostrich  feather 
in  it ;  and  a  portrait  of  her  deceased  husband, 
worn  as  a  stomacher,  and  almost  the  size  of 
life.  But  Agnes,  with  grateful  thanks,  had  de- 
clined her  protection.  She  did  not  even  care 
for  either  of  the  two  county  balls  (one  civil,  the 
other  military)  ;  and  therefore  it  may  be  easily 
imagined  that  the  ordinary  evening  parties  of 
the  neighborhood  failed  to  attract  her.  Dinner 
parties  W'ere  not  given  about  ISIcllor — a  neath"- 
written  statement  that  the  pleasure  of  your  com- 
pany was  requested  to  tea  being  the  favorite 
form  of  invitation — but  it  is  my  belief  that  Miss 
Crawford  would  not  very  much  have  cared 
even  for  going  out  to  dinner.  She  only  took 
ot'ner  people's  dinners  out  to  them  in  a  basket ; 
and  when  they  were  sick,  supplied  them  with 
little  comforts — made  inexpressibly  more  com- 
forting in  their  ministration.  Thus  it  might 
have  easily  happened  that  not  moving  in  the 
best  local  circles  (to  borrow  Mr.  Puce's  image- 
ry) Agnes  had  never  so  much  as  spoken  with 
John  Carlyon,  although  so  near  a  neighbor. 

The  fact  was,  however,  that  Mr.  Carlyon  did 
not  move  in  them  either,  or  rather  had  not  done 
so  for  many  years.  He  had  flown  ofi"  from 
them  at  a  tangent  of  his  own  free  will,  or  per- 
haps, as  they  themselves  averred  with  some 
complacency,  they  had  made  him  fly.  The 
squire  at  Woodlees  had  very  much  overrated 
his  social  position  if  he  imagined  that  he  might 
think  a^  he  liked,  or  at  all  events  might  express 
his  opinions  Because  the  Earl  Disney  thought 
fit  to  absent  himself  from  public  w'orship  fifty- 
one  Sundays  per  annum,  that  was  no  excuse  for 
IMr.  John  Carlyon 's  absence  therefrom  for  fifty- 
two.     Nor  had  he  even  the  decency,  like  Mr. 


CAULYONS  YEAR. 


25 


Crawford  (an  old  man  whose  case  was  shocking 
to  coiitemphxte,  but  who  had  yet  some  sense  of 
shame),  to  frame  an  excuse.  Tlie  squire  was 
the  picture  of  heaUh,  and  might  be  seen,  Sun- 
day after  Sunday,  starting  fur  liis  galloj)  on  tlic 
sands,  while  all  the  otiier  gentry  of  tiie  neigh- 
borhood were  proceeding  with  demure  faces  to 
listen  in  the  j)roi)er  place  to  the  clergyman  of 
their  parish.  These  gentlemen,  his  sometime 
companions  in  the  hunting-field,  would  look  up 
in  rather  a  sheepish  manner  and  say,  "  How  do, 
Carlyon  ?"  as  he  met  or  overtook  them  on  such 
occasions;  but  tlieir  wives  never  vouchsafed  liim 
a  nod.  Nay,  as  soon  as  he  had  passed  by  on  his 
ungodly  errand,  tliey  would  often  anticipate  Mr. 
Puce's  discourse  by  a  little  sermon  of  their  own, 
or  even  bring  the  tell-tale  color  into  their  lord's 
cheek  by  stating  their  belief  that  he  himself 
would  rather  be  on  horseback  at  that  very  mo- 
ment like  yonder  wicked  man,  if  the  trutii  were 
known.  It  is  fair  to  add,  however,  that  it  was 
not  merely  Mr.  Carlyon's  absence  from  church 
which  caused  him  to  be  thus  sent  to  Coventry 
(not  a  wholly  disagreeable  place,  he  averred  in 
his  cynical  way),  but  also  a  very  deplorable  hab- 
it he  had  of  speaking  disrespectfully  of  religion. 
He  protested  he  never  did  so  unless  in  self-de- 
fense, and  when  belabored  by  the  weapons  of 
the  dogmatic  ;  but  not  only  was  this  denied,  but 
the  defense,  such  as  it  was,  was  disallowed. 
He  ought  to  have  been  thankful  for  the  correc- 
tion ;  and  at  all  events,  even  in  war,  folks  are 
never  justified  in  poisoning  wells  or  using  Greek 
fire.  What  aggravated  the  matter,  too,  above 
all  things,  was  that  John  Carlyon's  father  had 
been  one  of  the  best  and  most  orthodox  of  men. 
While  he  lived  no  evidence  of  his  son's  deprav- 
ity had  been  afforded  ;  but  no  suoner  had  iiis 
example  been  withdrawn  than  tlie  young  squire 
had  thrown  off  the  mask,  and  appeared  in  his 
true  character  as  infidel  and  scoffer.  For  the 
rest  he  was  a  man  of  diiring  courage,  and  open- 
handed  generosity  ;  but  these  virtues,  of  course, 
only  made  his  irreligious  opinions  the  more  to 
be  deplored.  Every  body  in  Mellor  did  deplore 
them,  and  especially  Mrs.  Newman,  his  widow- 
ed sister,  a  lady  of  most  unimpeachable  views 
in  spiritual  matters,  although  in  worldly  affairs 
she  had  the  reputation  of  being  overprudent. 
With  regard  to  money,  of  which  she  had  a  plen- 
tiful supply,  she  was  even  called  close-fisted. 
The  shrewd  husband  of  one  of  the  poor  women 
whom  it  was  her  pleasure  to  edify,  once  observed 
of  Mrs.  Newman  that  "  You  might  get  a  ton  of 
texts  from  her  easier  than  an  ounce  of  tea,''  and 
it  must  be  confessed  that  the  remark  was  not 
without  foundation. 

John  Carlyon  and  Agnes  Crawford,  then,  ex- 
cept for  those  terrible  minutes  on  the  lessening 
sand,  had  never  met,  although  each  had  been 
made  well  aware,  by  report,  of  the  character  of 
the  other.  "She  will  thank  me,"  mused  the 
S'luire  to  himself,  as  he  rode  up  to  the  front 
door  at  Greycrags,  "and  then  she  will  shrink 
from  me  as  from  an  adder." 


CHAPTER  IX. 


gri:ycrag8. 


"Mr.  Chawfoui)  has  not  at  present  left  his 
chamber,  being  unwell,"  was  the  reply  given  by 
the  servant  to  Mr.  Carlyon;  "but  Mr.  Rich- 
ard is  somewhere  about  the  grounds,  and  I  will 
let  liim  know  you  are  here.  Miss  Crawford  is 
in  the  drawing-room,  sir,  if  you  will  stej)  this 
way." 

Twice  or  tliricc,  but  not  more,  Carlyon  had 
had  an  opportunity  of  observing  Agnes  with  at- 
tention, but  lie  thought  that  siic  had  never  looked 
half  so  lovely  as  when  rising  hastily,  though 
with  grace,  from  a  table  at  which  she  was  j)ut- 
tiiig  some  finishing  touches  to  a  drawing,  she 
came  forward  to  meet  him  with  heightened  col- 
or, and  outstretched  hand.  On  the  day  before, 
her  beauty  had  struck  him  indeed  as  wonderful ; 
but  then  it  was  something  out  of  natiu-e,  if  be- 
yond it.  The  expectation  of  immediate  death 
had  glorified  that  ciiarming  face,  and  changed 
it  to  something  celestial ;  it  had  jncsented  the 
chastened  and  unearthly  loveliness  which  the 
moonbeams  cast  upon  some  fair  landscape.  To- 
day, though  radiant  as  a  sunbeam,  she  looked 

A  creature  not  loo  briglit  and  good 
For  human  nature's  dally  food. 

"Mr.  Carlyon,"  said  she,  "I  have  to  thank 
you  for  my  life ;  what  words  shall  I  find  in 
which  to  do  so  ?" 

"None,  my  dear  madam,"  returned  he. 
"  Words  are  unnecessary  :  indeed  they  are.  I 
read  in 'your  face  that  gratitude  which  a  gener- 
ous UMi'd  i«  so  prompt  to  pay  with  usurioizs  in- 
terest." 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "As  you 
please,"  said  she.  "True  courage,  it  is  said, 
always  makes  light  of  its  own  acts ;  but  when 
we  left  you  yesterday  at  j\Ir.  Carstairs's  house, 
you  were  scarcely  recovered.  I  trust  you  are 
now  yourself  again." 

"Unhappily,  madam,  yes;"  here  he  released 
her  hand,  and  sighed.  "They  tell  me  I  was 
under  water  a  few  seconds  longer  than  yourself 
and  your  cousin :  otherwise  a  groat  hulking 
fellow  like  me  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself 
to  have  been  the  last  to  get  his  breath." 

"And  your  horse,  Mr.  Carlyon — I  trust  that 
noble  horse  has  come  safe  to  land  ?" 

"  He  is  standing  in  your  stables  at  this  mo- 
ment. If  I  could  but  let  him  know  that  you 
had  asked  after  him,  I  am  sure  that  Red  Berild 
would  be  better  pleased  than  with  a  feed  of 
corn.  His  nature  is  chivalric — except,"  added 
Carlyon,  smiling,  "  that  he  never  earns  the 
spurs." 

"I  have  had  another  visitor  this  morning, 
Mr.  Carlyon,  to  whom,  next  to  yourself,  Richard 
and  I  are  indebted  for  our  preservation  yester- 
day ;  and  for  fear  I  should  forget  it,  I  will  tell 
you  at  once  that  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  you  in 
connection  with  him.  When  one  owes  one's 
life  to  a  fellow-creature,  it  does  not  matter  what 
one  owes  beside ;  the  weight  of  obligation  can 


26 


CARLTON'S  YEAR. 


not  be  increased ;  so  you  sec  I  am  quite  sliame- 
less." 

"Whatever  tlie  favor  may  be,  it  is  grantofl, 
my  dear  Miss  Crawford.  You  speak  of  Will- 
iam Millet,  I  suppose,  whom  I  have  just  met 
upon  the  road." 

"Then  be  probably  asked  you  himself?" 
said  Apncs,  eagerly. 

"No;  although,  of  course,  I  would  have 
obliged  liim  in  any  way.  But  he  is  very  mod- 
est, is  William." 

"Very  modest  and  very  good,"  replied  Miss 
Crawford,  thoughtfully.  "I  don't  know  any 
one  .so  good  in  all  Mellor." 

"  lie  does  not  seem  a  happy  man,  however ; 
at  least,  he  has  always  a  melancholy  go-to- 
meeting  sort  of  air  about  him."  There  was  the 
shadow  of  a  sneer  upon  this  last  sentence,  cast 
by  the  speaker's  sclf-coutcmpt,  not  contempt  of 
his  subject.  Carlyon  felt  that  he  was  in  dan- 
ger of  playing  a  hypocritical  part  to  please  this 
beautiful  girl,  and  he  resented  his  own  weakness. 

"  If  William  Millet  has  sorrows,"  replied  Ag- 
nes, confidently,  "they  are  not  his  own.  His 
heart,  like  the  ])elican's  breast,  bleeds  for  others, 
not  for  himself" 

"Yes;  he  has  a  worthless,  drunken  fiither, 
poor  fellow,"  said  Carlyon,  abruptly;  "that 
must  be  a  bitter  bane  to  any  man." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Mr.  Carlyon  ;  you  and  I  can 
not  know  how  bitter.  I  say  you  from  hearsay 
only ;  but  if  what  every  body  agrees  in  must 
needs  be  true,  you  were  exceptionally  blessed  in 
your  father." 

"He  was  a  man  of  the  strictest  religion  and 
piety,"  returned  Carlyon. 

'J^ic  extreme  coldness  of  his  tone  could  scarce- 
ly have  escaped  her — and  indeed  it  was  intend- 
ed to  be  observed — but  she  went  on  as  though 
she  had  not  heard  it. 

"In  that  case,  you  ought  to  feel  pity  for  those 
who  are  less  fortunate  in  their  parents." 

"  I  do  pity  William  Millet,  Miss  Crawford. 
If  you  ask  me  to  pity  Stephen,  a  man  who  for  a 
glass  of  gin  has  put  a  life  like  yours,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  your  cousin's  and  mine,  in  deadliest  per- 
il, I  can  not  do  it." 

"I  ask  you  to  forgive  him,"  said  Agnes,  plead- 
ingly. 

"  William  has  asked  me  to  do  that  already, 
and  I  have  done  it.  I  have  promised  also  to 
try  my  best  to  get  the  old  man  forgiven,  al- 
though that  will  be  no  easy  task  in  Mellor,  where, 
if  you  had  ])erished,  they  tell  me  every  house- 
hold would  have  lost  its  truest  friend." 

"No,  sir,  no,"  said  Agnes,  hastily;  "poor 
folks  are  thankful  for  small  kindnesses,  and 
magnify  them  in  their  talk.  But  to  f/iis  house- 
hold— that  is,  to  my  jroor  father — my  loss  would 
have  been  doubtless  great.  The  very  nearness 
of  such  a  calamity  (for  such  it  would  have  doubt- 
less been  to  him)  affected  him  very  deejdy ;  he 
showed  himself  far  from  w-ell  at  Woodlees  yes- 
terday, Richard  tells  me." 

"Yes,  he  was  twice  overcome,  although  I 
did  not  understand  tiie  cause ;  but  at  your  fa- 


ther's age  there  is  nothing  surprising  in  such 
seizures,  i)articularly  since  he  has  been  such  an 
invalid  so  long." 

"Just  so,"  said  Agnes,  in  low  earnest  tones; 
"there  is  nothing  surjirising.  You  will  not  be 
disturbed  therefore,  if,  when  you  come  to  see  us, 
as  he  hopes  you  often  will,  he  should  occasion- 
ally give  way  in  a  similar  manner.  I  am  afraid 
he  is  scarcely  well  enough  to  see  you  to-day,  al- 
though I  know  he  counts  upon  the  pleasure  of 
your  dining  here  on  Thursday — indeed,  I  had, 
at  his  request,  written  you  this  formal  invita- 
tion— which,  as  you  see,  only  awaits  the  post- 
man." 

"I  accept  it  very  gladly,"  said  Carlyon; 
"notwithstanding  which,  oblige  me  by  not  tear- 
ing up  the  note.  It  will  remind  me — although, 
indeed,  I  am  not  likely  to  forget  it — of  the  en- 
gagement. Do  you  always  act  as  your  father's 
amanuensis  thus.  Miss  Crawford  ?" 

"Always:  I  have  done  so  for  some  years. 
Even  his  business  matters — except  just  where 
his  signature  is  necessary — are  entirely  trans- 
acted l)y  me.  You  smile,  as  though  you  doubt- 
ed my  fitness  for  such  a  post ;  but  I  assure  you, 
I  am  very  exact  and  methodical." 

"Nay,  I  was  only  envyinj;  the  attorney  whom 
Mr.  Crawford  employs,"  said  Carlyon,  simply. 
Tone  and  gesture  were  both  wanting,  which 
should  have  accompanied  a  compliment  so  high- 
flown.  The  young  girl  blushed  deeply,  and 
there  ensued  an  embarrassing  pause. 

"  That  drawing  of  yours  reminds  me,"  re- 
sumed Carlyon,  pointing  to  the  table,  "  of  the 
pretext  on  which  I  have  A'entured  to  intrude 
upon  you.  This  sketch-book  was  found  upon 
the  sands  this  morning,  as  well  as  a  camp- 
stool,  which  the  finder  will  bring  with  him  be- 
fore night ;  it  is  yours,  I  conclude,  although  I 
am  afraid  it  can  be  of  no  farther  use." 

Miss  Crawford  looked  very  grave  at  the  sight 
of  this  memento  of  her  late  peril.  "I  thank 
you  much,  Mr.  Carlyon.  It  is  useless,  as  you 
saj',  for  its  original  purpose  ;  but  I  am  very  glad 
to  have  it.  It  will  serve  to  remind  me  of  the 
Providence  which  mercifully  preserved  me  in  so 
terrible  a  strait ;  as  well,"  added  she,  with  frank- 
ness, "of  the  brave  gentleman  who  risked  his 
life — nay,  almost  lost  it — to  save  that  of  mere 
strangers.  My  unfinished  sketch,  I  perceive — " 
here  her  voice  faltered  in  spite  of  her  utmost 
efforts  at  self-command — "has  vanished  from 
the  block.  Surely  the  sea  could  not  have  taken 
all  the  color  out." 

"I  assure  you,  dear  Miss  Crawford,  on  my 
honor,"  exclaimed  Carlyon,  earnestly,  "that  F 
have  ventured  to  take  no  s\ich  liberty.  The 
book  is  just  as  it  came  into  my  hands." 

"Nay,  there  would  have  been  no  great  h.nrm," 
returned  she,  smiling,  "  even  had  you  committed 
such  a  theft.  The  wrecker,  I  am  afraid,  who- 
ever he  is,  will  have  gained  but  a  worthless 
prize." 

"There  I  difl'cr  from  you,"  said  Carlyon. 
"I  never  before  jn-ojierly  appreciated  my  man- 
orial rights  to  Flottsam   and  Jettsam :  I  will 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


27 


pnnish  the  rascal  who  has  thus  deprived  me  of 
them  with  all  the  rigor  of  the  law — tliat  is,  I 
would  if  I  could.  From  wlience  is  the  skctuli 
taken  whicli  you  liave  just  finished  so  ciiarm- 
ingly?  1  should  know  those  hills  well  cnouj,di : 
that  is  Wvnthrop  Tike,  is  it  not?  and  that  Cold 
Harbor  Uod?" 

"  No,  the  Dod  is  here,  in  the  middle  distance  ; 
although  I  dare  say  it  is  my  fault  that  it  is  not 
recognizable.  It  is  taken  half  way  up  the  crags ; 
a  most  glorious  place  for  a  view.  Come,  I  will 
show  you  the  very  spot." 

"I  should  like  that  of  all  things,"  answered 
Carlyon,  eagerly.  "Greycrags  has  been  so  well 
preserved  a  sanctuary  since  your  father's  time, 
that  I  have  quite  forgotten  the  view  from  your 
hill." 

She  took  up  the  summer  hat  that  lay  on  the 
chair  beside  her,  and,  with  the  drawing  in  her 
hand,  stepped  out  through  the  open  window  on 
the  lawn,  which  sloped  up  to  the  wood-crowned 
height  to  southward.  Two  winding  walks,  to 
left  and  right,  led  to  the  top  of  this  hill ;  and 
both  of  them  had  several  little  level  resting-places, 
or  plateaus,  provided  with  seats  either  for  rest 
or  enjoyment  of  the  extensive  prospect  afforded 
from  them.  On  one  of  these,  which  commanded 
the  windows  of  the  drawing-room  they  had  just 
left,  Richard  Crawford  was  seated  reading,  or, 
at  least,  with  a  book  in  his  hand.  He  did  not 
seem  to  observe  Carlyon  and  his  cousin.  He 
had  taken  up  his  position  on  the  left-hand  walk ; 
and  when  the  point  was  reached  where  the  two 
diverged,  Agnes,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
took  the  other. 

That,  certainly,  was  a  fair  spot  from  which 
the  good  folks  of  ^lellor  had  been  shut  out  by 
Mr.  Crawford's  veto  years  ago.  Art  and  na- 
ture seemed^  to  have  vied  with  one  anotlier  in 
adorning  the  scene.  The  luxuriance  of  the 
wilderness  predominated ;  for  Mr.  Crawford's 
out-door  establishment  was  scarcely  sufficient 
to  keep  in  order  such  extensive  grounds  ;  but 
still  the  lawn  on  which  you  looked  down  at 
every  turn  of  the  shady  zigzag,  was  kept  smooth 
and  shaven,  and  the  flower-beds  in  their  eme- 
rald setting  glowed  with  harmonious  hues.  A 
terrace-walk  —  now  diminished  to  a  strip  of 
gravel— ran  round  the  house,  and  this  was  set 
with  urns  full  of  scarlet  blossoms.  As  the 
moved  higher,  above  the  level  of  the  house-roof, 
the  prospect  to  the  north-west,  to  which  we  have 
alluded,  began  to  expand  itself,  and  for  the 
spectators  an  alcove  had  been  erected  at  the 
most  eligible  point  of  view. 

"This  is  the  place  from  which  I  took  this 
drawing,  Mr.  Carlyon,"  said  Agnes;  "and  I 
think  you  owe  me  an  apology  for  mistaking 
"Windy  Scar,  yonder,  for  Cold  Harbor  Dod, 
whose  hump,  I  flatter  myself  I  have  represent- 
ed with  great  fidelity.  I  have  always  been 
tauglit  to  prefer  truth  to  beauty,  independently 
of  the  fact  that  the  former  is  always  attainable, 
and  the  latter  not." 

"The  poet  tells  us  they  are  the  same,"  an- 
swered Carlyon,  "  'Beauty  is  truth — truth  beau- 


ty ;'  and  when  I  look  at  your  face,  Miss  Craw- 
ford, I  do  believe  him." 

"  Mr.  Carlyon,  I  am  not  used  to  listen  to 
comi)linients,"  said  Agnes,  rising  from  the 
bench  with  quiet  dignity  ;  "  and,  to  tell  you  the 
truth — or  tlie  beauty,  since  you  say  the  terms 
are  synonymous — it  is  a  taste  which  I  do  not 
wish  to  acquire." 

"  You  altogether  misconceive  my  unfortunate 
observation,  dear  Miss  Crawford,"  replied  Car- 
lyon humbly  ;  "  but  pray  sit  down.  1  will  take 
care  not  to  oifend  again,  even  in  appearance. 
You  make  light  of  my  poet's  dogma,  it  appears ; 
I  hope  you  do  not  flout  at  all  bards,  as  Meg — 
that  is,  Mrs.  Newman — does.  A  painter  like 
yourself  should  surely  be  on  friendly  terms  with 
the  sister-art." 

"  I  like  poetry  very  much,  Mr.  Carlyon  ;  but 
I  must  confess — making  all  iillowance  for  my 
own  lack  of  intelligence — that  the  claims  which 
its  admirers  often  put  forth  are  somewhat  ex- 
travagant. Poets  seem  to  me  to  be  the  most 
thoughtful  and  suggestive  of  writers,  touching 
with  marvelous  skill  the  innermost  chords  of 
our  being  ;  but  as  high-priests  of  our  spiritual 
life  I  do  not  recognize  their  authority." 

"You  do  not  believe  in  the  inspiration  of 
the  muse,  then?" 

"Yes,  I  do;  but  not  in  the  same  sense  in 
which  I  believe  in  the  inspiration  of  the  Scrip- 
tures." 

"Plenary?"  asked  Mr.  Carlyon,  smiling. 
"You  surely  don't  believe,  with  Air.  Job  Sal- 
ver, that  the  Bible  was  dropped  from  Heaven 
in  a  lump,  and  in  the  vulgar  tongue  ?" 

"Oh,  sir,  I  am  an  ignorant  girl,  and  know 
nothing  of  what  you  hint  at.  But  this  I  know, 
that  when  folks  want  comfort  on  their  sick-beds, 
they  only  get  it  from  one  book." 

"You  are  speaking  of  uneducated,  simple 
people,  such  as  you  find  about  here." 

"  Yes  ;  or  in  other  words,  of  about  nineteen- 
twentieths  of  our  fellow-creatures.  Of  the 
other  twentieth — the  educated  classes — about 
one-twentieth  again,  perhaps,  have  really  any 
genuine  poetic  feeling.  Thus  the  influence  of 
the  poets,  however  powerful,  is  restricted  with- 
in veiy  narrow  limits.  It  is  idle  to  speak  of 
them  as  supplying  the  spiritual  place  of  those 
inspired  writers  who  address  themselves  to  every 
degree  of  mankind." 

"  My  dear  JNIiss  Crawford,"  returned  Carlyon, 
laughing,  "  if  it  be  possible  that  Doctor  Samuel 
Johnson  has  been  permitted  to  reappear  upon  the 
earth's  surface  in  the  form  of  a  fair  lady,  she  is 
certainly  before  me  now.  You  make  me  believe 
in  the  doctrine  of  metempsychosis." 

"  I  wish  I  could  make  you  believe  in  some- 
thing better  and  truer,"  returned  the  young 
girl,  gravely. 

"Well,  try.  I  should  like  you  to  have  as 
good  an  opinion  of  me  as  you  have  of  "William 
Millet." 

"  Nay,  sir,  but  that  is  impossible." 

"Dear  me,"  quoth  Carlyon;  "why  this  is 
worse    measure  than  I    should  get   from    Mr. 


CARLYONS  YEAR. 


Puce  himself.     Surely  he  would  estimate  the 
Squire  of  Mcllor  above  a  cocklcr's  son." 

"Do  you  sujjjiose,  Mr.  Cariyon,  tluit  God 
Almifjhty,  wlio  made  tlic  whole  world,  and  ten 
thousand  other  worlds  for  all  we  know,  cares 
whether  a  man  is  a  king  or  a  cockier  ?" 

"  No,  Miss  Crawford  ;  nor,  indeed,  do  I  care, 
cither.  You  are  wasting  your  energies  in 
preaching  equality  to  one  of  '  the  Mountain' 
like  mc." 

"  And  yet  I  see  a  pride  in  this  very  humility 
of  yours,  Mr.  Cariyon.  Every  man  is  equal, 
you  say.  You  bend  to  no  one,  and  you  wish 
the  humblest  to  treat  you  as  man  with  man. 
And  yet  you  arc  aware  of  your  own  superiority 
to  the  rest.  When  you  rode  down  yesterday 
into  the  jaws  of  death — " 

"Into  the  mouth  of  hell,"  interrupted  Car- 
iyon, finishing  the  quotation. 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  say  that;  God  in  his  mercy 
forbid!"  continued  Agnes,  fervently;  "but 
when  you  saw  yourself  to  be  the  only  man  of  all 
that  concourse  upon  the  shore  who  would  peril 
his  life  to  save  that  of  others,  you  must  have 
known  that  you  were  braver,  nobler,  more  gen- 
erous than  other  men.  Oh,  sir,  it  is  not  well,  I 
know,  to  say  such  things  to  your  face  ;  I  see  it 
embarrasses  your  nature  to  hear  them  ;  yet  it  is 
my  duty  to  speak.  Ceurage  is  good  ;  but  that 
is  not  courage  which  in  the  favored  servant 
leads  him  to  defy  his  master  to  whose  forbear- 
ance he  is  indebted  ;  that  is  not  courage,  but 
an  ungrateful  audacity,  which  moves  a  man  to 
defy  his  God." 

"Miss  Crawford,"  returned  Cariyon,  slowly, 
"  I  thank  you.  I  am  not  so  willfully  blind  but 
that  I  can  perceive  you  mean  to  do  me  a  good 
service.  "We  will  talk  of  these  things  some 
other  time  together,  as  procrastinating  Festus 
said  to  Paul.  My  visit  to  Greycrags  has  al- 
ready been  unconscionably  long ;  in  remem- 
brance of  it,  however — especially  of  this  inter- 
view— may  I  beg  for  that  chalk  drawing,  that 
admirable  half-length  of  my  old  friend,  Cold 
Harbor  Dod.  Come,  or  else  I  shall  think  you 
vexed  because  your  eloquence  has  not  convert- 
ed me  upon  tlie  instant.  You  know  it  is  quite 
the  custom  for  those  who  would  gain  spiritu- 
al proselytes  to  bestow  material  advantages. 
'  Come  to  church,  and  you  will  get  coals  and 
blankets  at  Christm.as,'  says  Mr.  Puce  to  the 
disciples  of  Job  Salver." 

"As  you  will,"  said  Agnes,  sighing;  "you 
are  very  welcome  to  my  poor  drawing,  sir." 

Her  cheeks  w^ere  i)ale,  the  light  which  had 
glowed  in  her  earnest  eyes  awhile  ago  had  (piite 
gone  out.  Cariyon,  on  the  other  hand,  looked 
flushed  and  pleased.  He  rolled  up  the  little 
sketch  with  tendercst  care,  and  placed  it  in  his 
breast  pocket. 

"I  will  make  a  frame  for  it  with  my  own 
hands,"  cried  he,  joyfully;  "no  carver  and 
gilder  shall  touch  it.  Like  the  good  old  em- 
jieror  of  old,  you  may  say  to  yourself.  Miss 
Crawford,  that  you  have  not  misspent  tliis  d.nj', 
since  you  have  made  a  fellow-creature  liapjiy." 


Agnes  did  not  reply.  Slowly,  and  in  a  si- 
lence broken  only  by  one  or  two  conventional 
jjhrases,  the  two  descended  the  hill.  Richard 
had  deserted  liis  bench,  and  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  When  they  reached  the  drawing-room, 
and  the  horse  had  been  ordered  to  be  brought 
lound — 

"  I  must  go  out  and  see  Red  Berild!"  ex- 
claimed Agnes. 

"Ah,  do  so,"  said  Cariyon;  "although  he 
never  looks  so  well,  so  powerful,  and  yet  so  gen- 
tle, as  when  he  is  carrying  a  lady." 

So  she  went  out  to  where  the  noble  creature 
stood,  pawing  the  gravel,  and  patted  his  arching 
neck  approvingly,  and  whispered  in  his  prick- 
ing ears  how  grateful  she  felt  to  him. 

"  On  Thursday  we  shall  see  you  at  dinner, 
Mr  Cariyon,"  were  her  last  words. 

"  Without  fail,"  answered  he,  with  a  warmth 
that  contrasted  with  her  quiet  tones;  and  so 
they  shook  hands  and  parted. 

Rapt  in  happy  thought,  and  ever  and  anon 
touching  his  breast  pocket  as  though  to  assure 
himself  that  his  treasure  was  safe,  Cariyon  rode 
slowly  away ;  and  when  he  and  his  steed  had 
come  to  a  retired  pai't  of  the  road,  and  out  of 
eyeshot  of  the  house,  he  leaned  forward  and 
kissed  that  neck  upon  which  Agnes  Crawford's 
hand  had  lingered  so  lovingly. 


CHAPTER  X. 


CUBRA  S    TEACHING. 


When  Agnes  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
having  bid  adieu  to  her  guest,  she  did  what  was 
with  her  a  very  unusual  thing  indeed — that  is, 
nothing.  Instead  of  working,  or  reading,  or 
drawing,  or  attending  to  matters  of  the  house, 
she  sat  in  her  old  seat,  with  lier  hands  on  her 
lap,  looking  thoughtfully  out  upon  the  flower- 
bordered  lawn,  but  only  seeing  the  pictures  in 
her  brain.  How  long  she  might  h.ive  thus  re- 
mained in  dream-land  it  is  impossible  to  say, 
for  that  locality,  seductive  to  all,  is  particularly 
so  to  those  who,  like  lier,  are  comparatively 
strangers  to  it,  and  find  themselves  there  only 
occasionally;  she  was  soon  startled  into  con- 
sciousness, however,  by  some  one  moving  in 
another  part  of  the  room  which  lay  in  shadow. 

"Richard!"  cried  she,  in  astonishment. 
"  What,  are  you  here  ?" 

"Yes,  Agnes.  I  would  not  have  disturbed 
you  if  I  could  have  helped  it ;  but  I  got  the 
cramp  and  was  obliged  to  move  a  limb." 

"  You  frightened  me  very  much,  Richard," 
replied  she,  with  a  touch  of  annoyance  in  her 
tone.      "  Why  did  you  not  speak?" 

"Because  1  had  nothing  to  say  which  would 
be  pleasant  to  you,  or  at  least  one-half  as  pleas- 
ant as  the  thoughts  which  were  occui>ying  your 
mind."' 

"  You  can  not  have  read  them,  Richard,  very 
correctly,  if  that  is  the  conclusion  you  have  ar- 
rived at." 


CAItLYONS  YEAR. 


"  Yes  I  have,  Agnes,  I  can  tell  you  what 
you  have  been  dreaming  of,  for  it  is  a  drcatn 
which  can  never  have  any -reality,  thank  God! 
Yoii  have  been  dreaming  of  converting  John 
Carlyon — into  a  husband." 

"iliohard!"  She  had  risen  to  her  fall 
height,  with  flashing  eyes  and  flaming  cheeks. 
"How  dare  you  insult  me  thus — you  that  are 
my  own  kith  and  kin  !      I  Mush  for  you." 

"No,  you  are  blushing  for  yourself,  Agnes. 
You  have  seen  this  man  but  an  hour  or  so,  and 
yet  the  mention  of  his  name  turns  you  scarlet. 
I  saw  you  when  you  stepped  out  with  him  yon- 
der on  the  lawn  together.  You  both  looked  up 
fo  where  I  sat,  and  then  he  asked  you  a  question. 
An  inner  sense  told  me  what  it  was  as  surely 
as  though  it  had  been  whispered  in  my  ears. 
You  said  that  though  my  manner  might  have 
struck  him  as  strange,  that  I  meant  no  harm. 
That  you  re.illy  had  a  great  regard  for  me, 
being  your  cousin,  and  lest  he,  Mr.  Cavlyon, 
should  misjudge  mc,  you  would  confide  to  him 
at  once  that  1  had  had  a  sunstroke  in  Barba- 
dos." 

"  Heaven  is  my  witness,  Richard,"  interrupted 
Agnes,  earnestly,  "that  I  never  uttered  one  syl- 
lable of  all  this  ;  that  even  the  idea  of  uttering 
it  never  entered  into  my  mind.  You  will  be- 
lieve my  word,  Richard,  I  suppose,  in  opposition 
to  this  inner  sense  you  speak  of.  Oh  !  cousin, 
cousin,  for  shame." 

"  How  gentle  and  kind  you  are  with  me  in 
consideration  of  my  infirmity  !"  observed  the 
young  man,  bitterly.  "I  dare  say  you  have 
made  up  your  mind  that  there  shall  always  be 
an  asylum  for  me  in  your  own  home — that  is,.if  Ae 
has  no  objection — when  you  are  married  and 
settled." 

He  thought  she  would  have  flamed  up  again 
at  this,  but  her  face  was  now  still  and  pale. 
Her  large  eyes  gazed  upon  him  in  wonder  and 
in  sorrow.  His  fiery  dart  was  turned  aside  by 
the  shield  of  pity. 

"  Yes,  you  can  afford  to  bo  patient  and  for- 
bearing," he  went  on  ;  "or  at  lci;<t  you  think 
you  can;  though  do  not  be  too  sure." 

A  speck  of  color  came  into  each  fair  cheek, 
then  vanished  instantly  as  a  spark  ;  but  her  eyes, 
suddenly  stern,  retained  their  firmness. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  threaten  you,  Agnes." 

"Threaten  me.'"  Unutterable  scorn  never 
took  a  more  graceful  shape  than  in  that  face  and 
form.      "  You  are  mad,  Richard." 

"  No — not  mad,  but  wounded,  ve.xed  ;  that 
I  allow,  Agnes.  Forgive  me.  I  will  school 
myself  to  better  manners.  Why  did  this  man 
come  hither  ?  Why  did  he  ask  for  i/o'i,  not  for 
your  father?  Why,  as  though  this  room  was 
not  sufficiently  private  for  him,  did  he  lead  you  to 
yonder  arbor  ?" 

"  I  deny  your  right,  Richard,  to  ask  any  such 
questions;  but  they  are  easily  answered,  thus: 
Mr.  Carlyon  came  to  return  me  this  sketch-book 
left  on  the  sands  on  the  day  when  he  saved  your 
life  and  mine.  My  father  has  not  quitted  his 
room,  and  therefore  could  not  see  him.      It  was 


I  mvself  who  proposed  to  take  Mr.  Carlvon  uj) 
the  hill." 

"Good.  The  rest  I  know.  He  asked  you 
for  your  drawing,  and  you  gave  it  to  him,  and 
lie  said  you  had  made  him  hai)))y.  1  was  be- 
hind the  alcove  and  heard  it  all." 

"  Wiiat !  1/ou  played  the  eavesdropper!" 

He  had  approached  her,  but  she  waved  him 
off  with  a  gesture  of  supreme  contcniiit. 

"If you  were  a  poor  man,  sir,  I  tell  you  what 
you  would  have  been — vou  would  have  been  a 
thief!" 

"  We  do  not  despise  the  man — the  Bible  says 
it — who  steals  for  bread,"  replied  the  young 
man,  passionately.  "/  stnrve,  and  therefore 
steal.  You,  Agnes,  are  to  me  the  bread  for 
which  I  hunger ;  the  fire  for  lack  of  which  my 
blood  runs  cold  ;  the  drink  I  thirst  for;  the  at- 
mosphere in  which  alone  I  breathe.  Oh,  listen 
to  me — listen  to  me,  if  you  have  a  heart  not 
stone." 

He  cast  liimself  before  her  on  his  knees,  and 
clasped  her  dress,  for  she  was  about  to  leave  the 
room  in  terror  at  his  words. 

"You  are  all  I  have  to  live  for — all.  I  love 
you  as  no  woman  ever  yet  was  loved.  Look 
you,  you  have  given  that  man  a  drawing,  and  he 
says  that  he  will  prize  it ;  but  not  as  I  prize  this, 
although  it  was  no  gift  at  all.  I  tore  it  froni 
your  sketch-book  yesterday,  when  I  thought  wo 
had  but  a  few  minutes  to  live.  So  dear  even 
then  was  every  thing  belonging  to  you.  I  wish 
we  had  both  died  together.  Not  I  alone,  for 
then  you  would  have  married  this  man^ — which 
you  never  shall — no,  never.  Yes,  I  had  rather  see 
you  angered  thus  than  pitiful.   You  never  shall. " 

"  Richard !" 

"Nay,  Agnes,  do  not  look  like  that — I  then 
feel  without  heart  or  hope.     Oh  !  pity  me." 

From  menace  to  appeal,  from  love  to  hate, 
his  mood  thus  shifted  ;  yet  all  his  face  was 
bright  with  changeful  beauty,  like  some  Eolian 
harp  whose  strings  obey  the  tempest  or  the 
whispering  summer  wind  as  happens,  but  har- 
monious to  each.  Now  he  lay  prostrate  on  the 
floor  with  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands,  and  to 
judge  by  the  movement  of  his  shoulders,  sobbing 
with  hysterical  violence. 

"  For  shame,  Richard  !  That  is  not  the  be- 
havior of  a  man  but  of  a  spoiled  child  denied 
some  plaything  of  which,  if  it  were  given  him, 
he  would  tire  in  a  little  time  and  fret  for  some- 
thing else.  I  can  not  stay,  and  will  not,  to  sec 
you  thus  conduct  yourself.  I  will  sen<l  Cubra 
to  you,  for  I  am  sure  you  must  need  a  nurse." 

Thoroughly  roused  to  wrath,  Agnes  disen- 
gaged her  dress  from  his  now  yielding  fingers, 
and  left  the  room.  The  young  man,  moaning 
in  a  restless  manner,  like  some  wild  beast  in 
pain,  lay  where  he  was. 

"What.  Master  Richard  ill  again!  What 
have  they  been  doing  to  my  darling?"  cried  a 
female  voice,  speaking  with  great  rapidity,  and 
in  broken  English.  Then  followed  a  torrent  of 
Hindostanec.  "  Get  up,  my  own,  lest  the  sahib 
come  in  and  find  vou  thus." 


30 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


lie  looked  up  with  an  angry  scowl.  "  Let 
liini  come,  Cubra ;  I  know  now  how  to  deal 
with  liim.      Let  liim  take  care." 

"  Hush,  liusli !  Tiie  wise  snake  gives  no  rat- 
tle. Has  Miss  Agnes  made  you  angry?  She 
is  always  doing  that." 

"  No,  Cubra,  no,"  rcjilied  the  j'oung  man,  ris- 
ing to  liis  feet,  and  giving  tlie  old  black  woman 
his  hand,  wliich  she  covered  with  kisses  ;  "  it  is 
I  who  was  in  fault.  You  must  not  be  vexed 
with  Agnos." 

"What!  when  she  does  not  love  my  Rich- 
ard ?"  She  shook  her  head,  its  hair  more  in- 
tensely black  even  than  that  of  her  young  mas- 
ter, though  by  a  score  of  years  iiis  elder,  and  her 
eyes  gleamed  white  with  wrath.  "  No,  no.  Why 
no  slic  love  you,  my  beautiful  ?  It  is  she  who 
should  lie  there  and  say,  '  Kiss  me,  Richard,  be 
my  husband,  be  my  master.'  Tell  me  how  she 
liclp  it." 

' '  She  cares  nothing  for  me  ;  nobody  cares 
for  me  except  you,  Cubra.  And  what  is  worse, 
she  loves  another  man." 

"She  —  love  —  another  —  man!"  echoed  the 
ayah  ;  first  in  profound  wonder,  and  then  with 
malignant  ferocity.  "  She  love  another  man. 
Take  Cubra's  knife — this  one  she  killed  the  dog 
with,  years  ago,  tliat  kept  my  pet  awake  o'  nights 
with  its  yelping.  Take  it  and  kill  him.  If 
Massa  Richard  is  afraid,  shall  Cubra  do  it?" 

"  Certainly  not.  Never  hint  at  such  a  thing 
again,  I  beg.  Throw  that  knife  away.  It 
would  be  very  wrong,  very  wicked,  and  would 
displease  mo  very  much  indeed,  Cubra." 

"I  always  please  blaster  Richard,  not  make 
him  sorry,"  returned  the  black  woman,  quietly. 
"  What  shall  we  do  then?  kill  herf 

"Murderess!"  cried  the  young  nan,  with 
fuiT,  seizing  the  ayah  by  the  throat.  "Give  ut- 
terance to  that  devilish  thought  again,  and  I 
will  choke  you.  Touch  my  Agnes,  injure  one 
shining  hair  of  her  bright  head,  and  I  would — 
ugh  !  you  black  savage  !" 

Richard  let  go  his  hold  and  shuddered.  The 
application  of  the  homeopathic  princijile  of  like 
to  like,  passion  to  Jgassion,  for  the  time  at  least, 
had  cured  him.  xbe  exhibition  of  such  in- 
stincts in  another  had  made  him  sensible  of  his 
own  unreasonable  conduct. 

lie  passed  out  on  the  lawn,  and  up  to  the 
alcove  which  Carlyon  and  Agnes  had  lately  oc- 
cupied. There  he  sat  alone,  watched  by  the 
eyes  of  Cubra  from  below,  exactly  as  a  man  in 
some  trouble,  beyond  canine  sagacitj-  to  compre- 
hend, is  watched  bj-  his  faithful  dog. 

The  ayah  had  been  Richard's  foster-mother, 
although  not  in  India.  For  some  reason,  best 
known  to  Mr.  Crawfoi-d,  the  place  of  the  black 
nurse  in  whose  care  he  had  been  brought  home 
had  been  supjdied  by  Cubra  directly  the  vessel 
arrived  in  England  ;  but  she  loved  him  as 
tliough  he  had  been  her  charge  and  comfort 
from  the  first.  Great  and  wondrous  is  the  af- 
fection which  women  often  evince  for  the  little 
ones  who  arc  indebted  to  them  not  for  the  gift 
of  life,  but  only  for  the  prolongation  of  it  ;  but 


in  Cubra's  case,  this  feeling  was  devotion  ;  nay, 
idolatr}-.  Without  friends,  without  relatives, 
without  country,  without  a  God,  this  ]ioor,  ig- 
norant creature  iiad  found  a  substitute  for  tliem 
all  in  Riciiard  Crawford.  She  was  ready  to 
shed  her  heart's  blood  for  him,  and  she  had 
given  him  all  that  slie  had  to  give  him  short  of 
that.  Some  of  her  gifts  had  better  never  have 
been  bestowed.  He  had  inlierited  from  her  the 
vehement  passions  of  her  Eastern  race,  not  mit- 
igated, and  scarcely  skinned  over  by  her  long 
contact  with  the  civilized  world.  His  educa- 
tion, such  as  it  was,  had  done  him  but  little  serv- 
ice. His  uncle,  moody,  and  at  times  morose, 
had  never  taken  kindly  to  the  boy,  although  he 
had  always  done  his  duty  by  him  in  what  is 
falsely  termed  "  essentials,''  that  is,  in  materi- 
al requirements.  He  had  not  spared  money, 
(the  child  bad  inherited  but  very  little  from  his 
own  parents)  and  had  sent  him  to  a  respectable 
school.  He  had  then  offered  to  give  him  a  fair 
start  in  any  jirofession,  save  one,  to  which  he 
might  take  a  fancy.  And  here  occurred  the  first 
considerable  breach  between  the  boy  and  his 
guardian.  Richard  had  that  vehement  longing 
to  enter  the  navy  which  sometimes  seizes  upon 
our  insular  youth  with  an  intensity  not  to  be 
explained,  and  upon  which  as  9  n^ion  we  may 
well  congratulate  ourselves  as  E  nation,  but  not 
always  as  ])arents  and  guardians.  Mr.  Craw- 
ford entertained  a  repugnance  for  the  sea  quite 
ns  great  and  as  unaccountable  as  was  his  neph- 
ew's predilection  for  it.  The  contest  was  very 
violent,  and  bore  bitter  fruit.  So  far  as  the  sub- 
ject of  dispute  was  concerned,  Richard  gained 
his  point,  inasmuch  as  he  was  sent  afloat,  but 
instead  of  being  admitted  Into  the  royal  navy, 
he  entered  the  merchant  service.  His  uncle 
never  forgave,  him  his  obstinacy,  and  his  own 
proud  spirit  deeply  resented  the  being  placed  in 
wliat  he  considered  an  inferior  branch  of  his 
beloved  calling.  \ 

I  At  the  time  of  his  departure  on  his  first 
voyage — which  proved  a  long  one — and  just  be- 
fore Mr.  Crawford's  removal  to  INIellor,  a  second 
ground  of  offense  had  arisen.  The  boy  had 
fivUen  in  love  with  his  cousin  —  if  one  of  his 
rash  and  ini]  etuous  nature  could  be  said  tu  fajl, 

I  and  not  rather  to  have  leajied  headlong  over 
the  icy  barrier  of  kinship  into  the  fiery  gulf  of 

I  love.  The  passion  of  a  youth  of'sixtecn  for  a 
girl  one  year  his  junior  is  not  generally  a  very 

j  dangerous  matter,  and  especially  when  tliere  i> 

1  no  sign  of  its  being  -eturned  ;  but  it  naturally 
intensified  his  uncle's  prejudice  agairtst  him,  at 

I  the  same  time  as  it  properly  forwarded  his  own 

)  views  in  the  matter  of  his  being  sent  to  sea. 
After  an  absence  of  a  year  or  two  on  the  salt 
water,  it   was  reasonably  to  be   expected  that 

j  such  a  cobweb  would  be  blown  away  from  bis 
youn;.:  brain ;  and  no  serious  talk  had  ever 
been  held  with  liim  upon  the  point.  Yet  now. 
after  being  away  from  the  belovod  object  for  no 
less  than  five  years,  the  young  man  had  return- 
ed home  more  enamored  of  her  than  ever.  He 
had  only  been  at  Greycrags  for  a  few  weeks, 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


81 


and,  as  we  have  seen,  he  had  already  addressed 
liis  cousin  in  the  terms  of  a  passionate  lover; 
and  yet  the  duration  of  his  stay  at  home  was  in- 
definite. This  was  a  state  of  thinjjjs  the  sus- 
])icion  of  wiiich  might  have  aroused  the  anxiety 
of  any  fatlicr.  '  Mr.  Crawford,  however,  was  not 
ignorant  of  the  relative  position  which  the  two 
cousins  occupied.  Not  only  was  he  confident 
of  the.  dutifulncss  of  his  daughter,  but  the  sis- 
terly affection  which  slic  had  at  all  times  mani- 
fested toward  Richard  was  evidence  to  the 
shrewd  old  man  of  her  not  reciprocating  any 
warmer  feeling.  Slie  had  interceded  for  him 
with  her  father,  a  liundred  times,  but  never 
when  the  favor  sought  would  liave  been  to  the 
lad's  hurt,  albeit  to  his  gratification.  She  had 
shown  none  of  the  blind  fondness  of  one  who 
loves,  and  none  of  the  reticence.  Mr.  Crawford 
knew  from  her  own  lips  that  his  nc])hew  had  of- 
fered her  his  hand,  and  been  refused.  Slie  had 
confided  it  to  him  ujion  the  understanding  that 
j)oor  Ricliard  was  to  be  treated  none  the  worse 
for  all  that  had  come  and  gone.  It  was, 
doubtless,  owing  to  this  proviso  that  the  young 
sailor  owed  the  toleration  which  he  enjoyed  at 
Greycrags  from  his  host  and  kinsman,  notwith- 
standing liis  audacious  aspirations. 

Although  accepting  his  position,  Richard  was 
by  no  means  grateful  for  tlie  sufferance.  He 
knew,  or  thought  he  knew,  that  he  possessed  a 
claim  upon  the  hospitality  of  Gr^ivcrags,  nay, 
upon  the  possession  of  Agnes  Crawford  for  his 
wife,  that  only  required  to  be  put  forward  to  be 
allowed  ;  a  claim  basely  acquired,  indeed,  and 
base  for  a  man  to  nse — but  still  a  valid  one. 
Of  the  game  he  felt  himself  certain  ;  whether 
it  was  to  be  obtained  by  honest  play,  or  by  the 
card  which  he  kept  in  his  sleeve,  was  the  ques- 
tion that  now  agitated  him  as  he  sat  in  the  al- 
cove, endeavoring  to  nerve  himself  for  the  cheat's 
device  by  thinking  how  willingly  she  had  lately 
sat  there  by  another's  side.  It  was  not  an  easy 
task  ;  for  the  young  man,  although  unprincipled 
and  reckless,  was  not  a  coward,  as  we  have  al- 
ready seen.  He  had  stooped  to  at  least  one 
meanness,  besides  that  with  which  we  are  ac- 
quainted ;  but  it  was  not  his  nature  to  be 
mean.  The  strength  of  his  master-passion  had 
overthrown  all  barriers  of  honor  and  good 
faitli  tiiat  interposed  themselves  to  its  current, 
and  was  now  threatening  to  whelm  his  whole 
moral  being.  Out  of  the  course  of  this  stream, 
there  was  much  good  ground  and  fertile ;  but, 
curiously  enough,  ii^  pursuit  of  one  of  the 
purest  objects  human  heart  could  desire,  his 
cwa  was  indurating  and  being  debased,  just  as 
the  diamond-seeker  burrows  in  the  depths  of  the 
mine,  or  the  modern  Promctlieus  seeks  the  pho- 
tographic, fire  wit'.i  covered  face. 

"  It  is  only  a  little  less  base  than  Cubra's 
knife, "  muttered  Richard  to  Idmself,  after  much 
reflection.  "  She  might  hate  me  for  using  such 
a  weapon,  even  though  slic  became  my  wife. 
No,  no  !  it  can  not  be  that  she  will  always  re- 
ject such  love  as  mine.  I  was  wrong  to  show 
myself  so  jealous  of  the  visit  of  this  stranger, 


although  I  can  sec  how  the  old  man  favors 
him.  Oh,  Agnes,  Agnes!"  exchiinicd  he,  pas-- 
sionately,  as  with  a  fervent  and  almost  frenzied 
gaze,  like  some  fire-worshiper  in  i)resence  of 
his  divinity,  he  gazed  upon  the  western  hills, 
now  smitten  with  flame,  "if  I  could  only  win 
you  fairly,  my  beloved  one !"  Then,  as  he 
turned  to  descend,  and  his  eye  fell  upon  Cubra, 
still  kee])ing  her  patient  watch  below,  he  added, 
"but  fairly  or  not,  Agnes  Crawford" — and 
there  was  a  bitter  sneer  in  tlie  tone  in  which  he 
pronounced  her  name — "you  shall  be  won,  and 
that  soon." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A    LITTLE    DINNER   AT   GREYCRAGS. 

The  institution  of  dinner  parties,  admirable 
for  maiikind  in  many  respects,  and  certainly  su- 
perior to  all  other  forms  of  entertainment,  is  not 
so  advantageous  with  regard  to  our  relations 
with  the  otlier  sex.  Man  can  have  no  better 
opportunity  of  cultivating  acquaintance  with  his 
brother  man,  but  scarcely  a  worse  for  improving 
his  position  with  the  lady  of  his  affections.  We 
may  not  be  so  fastidious  as  the  noble  bard  who 
"hated  to  see  a  woman  eat,"  but  we  still  must 
acknowledge  that  we  had  rather  see  our  beloved 
object  doing  almost  any  thing  else.  We  do  not 
know  how  it  maybe  with  chopsticks,  but  a  knife 
and  fork  in  woman's  hands  seem  certainly  in- 
imical to  the  tender  passion  ;  the  jir.gle  of  glass- 
es, the  clatter  of  plates,  are  not  to  be  trusted  to, 
as  in  any  degree  permanent ;  servants  are  not 
invariably  noisy  ;  and  just  as,  under  cover  of  a 
fusillade  of  this  sort,  you  have  hazarded  a  re- 
mark with  meaning,  a  sudden  silence  may  place 
you  in  the  most  embarrassing  position.  The 
attentive  fair  one  poising  a  morsel  upon  her  fork, 
pi'esents  a  truly  ridiculous  spectacle,  and  you — 
with  the  sentence  you  dare  not  finish — how  fool- 
ish you  also  look,  as  you  plunge  madly  at  your 
champagne  glass,  and  wish  it  were  an  opaque 
pitcher  in  which  you  could  hide  your  diminished 
head.  And  yet,  how  you.  counted  beforehand 
on  that  evening  when  you  knew  you  were  to 
meet  her,  and  that  your  good-natured  hostess 
would  see  that  your  Arabella  should  be  placed 
under  your  charge  in  the  procession  to  the 
Aining-room!  *  For  my  part,  I  think  the  East- 
ern custom,  which  excludes  females  from  feasts, 
is  a  most  excellent  one.  The  only  exception 
should  be  picnics,  which,  indeed,  would  never 
exist  except  fur  women,  ■who  care  not  what  they 
eat,  or  what  they  drink,  but  only  wherewithal 
they  shall  be  clothed. 

However,  as  I  have  said,  the  lover  still  looks 
forward  to  the  repast  at  which  he  is  to  meet  his 
fair  one,  notwithstanding  the  not  unrecorded  ex- 
periences of  the  generations  before  him  :  and 
the  Tliur.sday  on  which  John  Carlyon  was  in- 
vited to  Greycrags,  seemed  to  beckon  him  to 
bliss. 

His  late  interview  with  Agnes  had  filled  his 
heart  with  hope — it  must  be  confessed  on  but 


32 


CAULYON'S  YEAR. 


slij^lit  Rrounds.  He  did  not  take  into  account 
the  dejith  of  gratitude  which  slic  felt  for  the 
sen-ice  he  had  rendered  her,  and  which,  of  course, 
had  placed  him  upon  (piite  another  footin;,'  than 
that  of  a  stranger  making  his  first  visit  of  cere- 
mony;  the  unconventional  simjdicity  of  her  na- 
ture, too,  so  dificrent  from  that  of  young  ladies 
in  general,  gave  to  her  manners  a  frankness  and 
cordiality  which  he  had  construed,  somewhat 
egotistically  perhaps,  into  a  liking  for  himself. 
T5ut,  he  was  at  all  events  certain  that  she  did 
not  shrink  from  him  as  he  had  api)rchcnded 
would  have  been  the  case,  in  pinns  horror.  He 
did  not  at  all  dislike  her  remarks  to  him  upon 
the  question  of  religion.  They  evinced  an  in- 
terest in  his  future  welfare,  which  jierhaps  miglit 
be  extended  to  the  jtrcsent.  Charity  begins  at 
home,  but  love  may  begin  anywhere.  Marriages 
themselves  were  said  to  be  made  in  heaven.  It 
was  very  foolish  of  him  to  leap  to  these  conclu- 
sions ;  but  the  fact  was,  Carlyon  was  dealing 
with  a  person  whose  motives  of  action  he  could 
appreciate,  and  yet  by  no  means  understand. 
Nothing  is  more  unintelligible  to  an  irreligious 
man  than  the  position  of  the  truly  pious.  The 
([uoters  of  texts,  the  wearers  of  long  faces,  the 
<lenouncers  of  fiction,  the  foes  of  the  Pope,  and 
all  that  rout  of  the  vulgar  and  ignorant  who 
make  up  so  large  a  portion  of  what  is  called 
"the  religious  world,"  are  very  transparent  to 
him,  and  afford  him  endless  opportunities  of 
scoffing  at  the  Great  Cau?e  of  which  these  fool- 
ish persons  imagine  themselves  to  be  the  advo- 
cates. But,  brought  face  to  face  with  those  who 
spend  their  lives  in  doing  good,  from  motives 
quite  other  than  those  of  simple  benevolence, 
and  whose  charity  is  of  the  heart  as  well  as  the 
hand,  he  is  puzzled  how  to  treat  them.  These 
"amiable  enthusiasts,''  M'ho  show  their  faith  by 
their  works,  are  very  embarrassing  to  him  ;  but 
they  are  seldom  met  with  in  society. 

Carlyon  had  long  regarded  Agnes  like  some 
star  set  far  above  him  in  a  heaven  of  its  own ; 
but  now  that  he  had  been  admitted  to  her  pres- 
ence, and  listened  to  her  opinions,  she  seemed 
no  longer  out  of  his  reach.  Yet  as  soon  might 
he  imagine  that  the' substance  of  the  star  was 
anv  nearer  to  him,  because  in  some  tranquil  pool 
he  had  seen  its  reflex,  and  hung  over  it  for  a 
little  unrebuked. 

It  is  sad  to  think  how  soon  w'itli  ordinary  men, 
and  especially  with  those  who  pay  a  somewhat 
excepti(jnable  homage  to  women,  the  angel  is 
lost  in  the  wife,  and  the  wife  in  the  drudge ; 
how  lightly  they  value  the  prize  once  so  humbly 
sought  when  they  have  become  possessed  of  it. 
With  one  of  Carlyon's  generous  and  knightl}-  na- 
ture such  degradation  was  impossible,  but  he 
was  not  without  some  share  of  tliat  vanity  of  his 
sex  which  translates  the  pressure  of  a  woman's 
hand  into  "Persevere,"  and  her  smile  into 
"You  will  succeed."  A  w'eek  ago,  had  his 
heart  ventured  to  whisper  to  him  that  Agnes 
Crawford  might  some  day  be  his,  he  would  have 
laughed  aloud  for  very  bitterness.  But  now,  as 
lie  was  borne  toward  Creycrags,  in  the  close  car 


of  the  country,  to  dine  in  company  with  that  no 
longer  unajiproachable  young  woman,  the  idea 
of  such  a  union  was  by  no  means  laughable, 
but  eminently  jjracticable  and  very  nice.  There 
was  no  dinner-party  to  meet  him,  of  course. 
Not  tliat  there  is  any  difficulty  in  the  country  in 
getting  folks  to  dine  with  you,  for  they  will 
cheerfully  come  six,  and  even  ten  miles,  to  doit 
in  the  depth  of  winter,  but  simply  because  ^Ir. 
Crawford  knew  nobody  to  ask.  Mr.  Puce,  in- 
deed, would  have  given  five  pounds  (and  he  was 
not  a  recklessly  extravagant  man  either)  for  an 
invitation  to  Greycrags ;  but  Mr.  Puce  was  not 
there.  Mr.  Carstairs  was  the  only  guest  besides 
Carlyon,  who  was  not  an  inmate  of  the  house. 

An  apology  for  this  circumstance  was  tend- 
ered by  the  stately  old  man,  as  he  welcomed 
the  young  squire,  who  on  his  ]iart  rejoined,  most 
truthfully,  that  he  was  glad  they  were  to  be  so 
small  a  company.  He  might,  with  equal  ve- 
racity, have  added  that  at  least  one  of  the  pres- 
ent jiarty  could  have  been  well  spared.  Mr. 
Richard  Crawford,  offensively  good-looking  and 
objectionably  young,  was  standing  by  his  cousin's 
side,  and  continued  there  to  stand  while  Car- 
lyon and  she  shook  hands  and  dilated  upon  the 
fineness  of  the  evening — as  though  June  were 
generally  a  series  of  pouring  days  alternating 
with  snow-storms.  It  was  quite  a  relief  when 
cheery  Mr.  Carstairs  bustled  in  late — (""When 
a  lady's  in  the  case,  my  dear  sir,  and  especially 
under  certain  circumstances — ahem — all  other 
things  must  give  place") — and  fastened  him- 
self upon  Mr.  Richard,  with  some  startling  par- 
ticulars concerning  the  right  of  fishing,  whicli 
that  young  gentleman,  it  seems,  had  exercised 
of  late  in  contempt  of  the  lawful  authority  of 
Charles,  Earl  Disney.  The  doctor,  indeed,  was 
just  one  of  those  persons  whose  presence  is  in- 
valuable in  a  small  company,  in  which  there  are 
discordant  elements.  A  common  acquaintance 
of  all,  he  seemed  to  be  unaware  of  the  existence 
of  any  antipathies.  He  rattled  on  at  dinner 
from  one  subject  of  gossip  to  another  in  his  good- 
natured  way,  insisting  especially  upon  the  atten- 
tion of  Richard  as  being  a  youth,  and  one  who 
had  never  paid  him  his  dues  in  any  other  form. 
In  vain  the  young  man  replied  to  him  in  mono- 
syllables, and  never  took  his  eyes  off  Carlyon 
and  iiis  cousin,  wly)  were  conversing  in  reality 
innocently  enough  about  ordinary  matters  ;  the 
doctor  poured  fortli  his  cornucopia  of  news  to 
the  last  item,  and  then  took  to  science. 

"  By  the  bye,  Mr.  Richard,  ever  since  I  heard 
you  have  been  to  Peru,  I  have  wanted  to  have  a 
long  talk  with  you  about  the  cinchona  jdant." 

And  a  long  talk  he  had,  lasting  through  half 
the  repast,  during  which  his  unfortunate  victim 
presented  the  appearance  rather  of  one  who  was 
employed  in  takinri  quinine  than  of  merely  con- 
versing about  it.  Mr.  Crawford,  senior,  threw 
in  a  word  or  two,  here  and  there,  evincing  con- 
siderable knowledge  of  the  subject,  but  never  at 
sufficient  length  to  extricate  his  nephew  from 
the  discussion  and  set  him  at  liberty  to  watch 
his  cousin  and  her  neighbor.     If,  in  short,  the 


CAllLYON'S  YEAR. 


33 


whole  thing  had  been  planned  for  the  discom- 
fituro  of  the  young  sailor,  and  for  affording  his 
ojtportunity  to  Carlyon,  tlie  end  in  view  could 
not  liavc  been  more  successfully  attained. 

When  A|,'ncs  had  risen  and  departed,  the  doc- 
tor, e.xhilerated  by  social  success  and  some  first- 
rate  Madeira,  was  still  the  lion  of  the  evening. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  to-night,  Mr.  Car- 
lyon," said  the  little  man,  good-humoredly ; 
"  the  last  time  we  parted,  it  was  after  ratiier  an 
unpleasant  discussion  ;  but  forgive  and  forget  is 
my  motto,  as  I  am  sure  it  is  yours.  And  I  am 
glad  to  see  you  here,  sir,  especially,  where  you 
will  find  precept  and  example  too — for,  if  your 
excellent  daughter,  Mr.  Crawford,  does  not  con- 
vert him  from  his  errors,  neither  would  one  who 
rose  from  the  dead  ;  that's  my  o])inion." 

"  I  too  am  extremely  glad,"  observed  the  old 
gentleman,  with  a  grave  smile,  "  to  see  Mr. 
Cailyon  here,  although  I  was  not  aware  that  he 
stood  in  need  of  sjjiritual  aid.  But  for  him,  sir, 
my  daughter,  of  whom  you  are  ])leased  to  sjjcak 
so  highly,  would  not  be  now  alive  ;  nor,  indeed, 
would  this  young  gentleman." 

''I  have  already  endeavored  to  express  my 
gratitude  to  Mr.  Carlyon,"  rejoined  Kichard, 
stiffly.  "  Mr.  Carstairs,  I  think  I  know  what  you 
have  in  your  mind,  and  also  in  your  jioeket.  I 
assure  you  my  uncle  has  no  sort  of  objection  to 
your  smoking  a  cigar." 

"None  whatever,"  responded  the  old  gentle- 
man, and  the  cigars  were  lighted  accordingly. 

Carlyon  had  not  thought  it  possible  that  any 
observation  of  Kicliard  Crawford's  could  have  af- 
forded him  so  much  satisfaction.  Armed  with 
the  benignant  weed  he  knew  that  he  would  be 
permitted  to  dream  as  he  pleased  while  the  doc- 
tor talked ;  that  he  could  conceal  his  thoughts 
in  grateful  silence  as  easily  as  he  could  hide  his 
countenance  in  the  fragrant  smoke. 

"You  are  very  indulgent,  Mr.  Crawford," 
began  the  little  man;  "unusually  so  to  us 
young  folks — ahem"  (the  doctor  was  on  the 
shady  side  of  fifty)  ;  "  and  you  don't  smoke 
yourself,  neither,  which  makes  the  permission 
doubly  commendable." 

"  I  was  so  smoke-dried  in  my — at  one  time 
in  my  life,"  observed  the  old  gentleman  coldly, 
"tiiat  nothing  annoys  me  in  that  way." 

Mr.  Carstairs  liad  it  upon  the  tip  of  his  tongue 
to  say,  "  That  was  in  the  army,  I  suppose,"  but 
he  did  not  feel  quite  equal  to  such  an  audacity, 
so  helped  himself  to  Madeira  instead. 

"  One  thing  gives  me  great  comfort,"  con- 
tinued the  little  man;  "without  which,  even 
with  your  permission,  I  should  scarcely  venture 
to  enjoy  myself  in  this  way,  and  that  is,  that 
Miss  Agnes  has  no  objection  to  the  smell  of 
smoke.  She  never  asks  a  poor  man  to  put  out 
his  pipe  when  visiting  his  cottage,  altliough  the  i 
tobacco  in  Mellor  is  by  no  means  like  that  of  I 
the  young  squire's  here.  What  a  difference 
there  is  in  tobacco!  When  we  go  home  to- 
gether, Carlyon,  I  shall  ask  you  for  one  out  of 
your  case." 

Carlyon  laughed,  and  they  all  lauglied.     This 
C 


little  doctor,  who  had  dined  and  wined  so  freely, 
and  was  enjoying  himself  so  much,  was  quite  a 
godsend  to  the  company.  In  the  drawing-room 
after  dinner  he  was  still  the  leading  spirit.  At 
the  conclusion  (aqd  sometimes  a  little  before  it) 
of  Agnes's  charming  Scotch  songs  he  led  the  ap- 
plause, clapi)ing  his  large  hands  together,  like  a 
dramatic  critic  of  the  pit.  Once  again  he  in- 
formed Carlyon  that  he  was  glad  to  see  him  in 
that  house,  and  in  such  improving  company. 
"  Go  and  talk  to  her,  sir,  she  will  do  you  good," 
whispered  he,  with  earnestness.  Nor  did  he 
fail  to  give  him  the  oi)portunity ;  for  fastening 
vampire-like  on  the  uniiaiijiy  Kiehard,  he  sucked 
his  brains  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  with  refer- 
ence to  the  insufficient  supply  of  lime-juice  in 
the  merchant  service  for  the  prevention  of  scur- 
vy. In  short,  Carstairs  was  the  guest  of  the 
evening;  nay,  it  was  Carstairs's  dinner  given  by 
Crawford;  it  was  almost  Carstairs's  daughter  by 
a  previous  marriage. 

Carlyon  laughed  aloTul  as  he  and  the  little 
man  strode  home  together  that  beautiful  night 
— having  sent  away  their  respective  veliicles — 
each  with  one  of  those  excellent  cigars  of  the 
Woodlees  brand  in  their  mouths.  He  had  not 
had  mucli  private  talk  with  Agnes,  but  he  was 
indebted  to  the  surgeon  for  all  that  he  had  had. 
Iler  last  words  had  been  the  sweetest.  She  had 
expressed  a  wish  to  take  the  portrait  of  her 
equine  preserver  Red  Berild.  He  was  to  ride 
the  gallant  roan  to  Greycrags  for  that  purpose 
the  very  next  day.  She  had  said,  "any  day," 
and  he  had  replied,  "  To-morrow,"  and  to-mor- 
row it  was  to  be.  It  would  take  a  long  time 
and  many  sittings  (if  such  a  term  could  be  used 
tor  such  a  subject)  to  paint  a  horse.  He  saw 
no  end  to  iiis  opportunities  of  visiting  Greycrags. 

"What  a  charming  evening  we  have  had," 
exclaimed  he,  enthusiastically. 

"  Very  jolly  !"  answered  the  surgeon,  prompt- 
ly. "  I  never  enjoyed  myself  more  in  my  life. 
Curious  young  fellow,  though,  that  Mr.  Richard ; 
deuced  hard  to  get  any  thing  out  of  him.  Wants 
a  deal  of  pumping.  But  when  I  want  to  get 
the  truth  out  of  a  man,  I  flatter  myself  I  gene- 
rall}'  get  it.     How  do  you  like  IMiss  Agnes?" 

' '  Stop  a  bit ;  ni}'  cigar's  going  out.  Give  me 
a  light,  Carstairs." 

"No,  it  isn't.  It  is  in  a  stnte  of  complete 
combustion.     How  do  you  like  her,  sir?" 

"  What,  Miss  Crawford  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  mean  the  girl  that  helped  to 
wait  at  table  ;  I  refer  to  our  late  hostess." 

"I  think  she  is  a  very — pleasant — agreeable 
— and  certainly  beautiful  young  woman." 

This  opinion,  given  with  the  utmost  deliber- 
ation, and  much  of  the  conscious  solemnity  of 
a  judge,  seemed  to  satisfy  the  inquirer.  They 
walked  on  for  some  distance  in  silence. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  young  fellow,  Richard, 
uncommonly  handsome,  Carlyon  ?" 

"Very,"  returned  the  squire,  unhesitatingly. 

"And  so  young,  too,"  continued  the  doctor. 
"  One  can  not  wonder  tliat  JNIiss  Agnes  is  obvi- 
ously weak  in  that  quarter.     Did  you  not  notice 


3-i 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


how  quickly  she  spoke  in  his  behalf  when  the 
old  gentleman  was  inclined  to  take  him  to  task 
once  or  twice." 

"  Yes  ;  siie  defends  every  body  ;  and,  besides, 
as  you  say,  siie  is  doubtless  inucli  attached  to  the 
lad.     Tiiey  are  first  cousins,  you  know." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  as  before,  except 
tlmt  ever  and  anon  the  doctor  now  stole  a  look 
at  his  unconscious  companion,  full  of  embarrass- 
ment and  pity.  Ilis  high  s])irits  seemed  to  have 
(juite  deserted  him.  Carlyon,  on  the  other  hand, 
stepped  Rayly  along,  solacing  himself,  in  i)lace 
of  another  cigar,  with  snatches  of  song,  accord- 
ing to  his  custom  when  well-content.  Thny 
were  drawing  near  to  Mellor,  where  they  were 
to  i)art,  before  Mr.  Carstairs  spoke  again. 

"I  say,  Carlyon,  did  you  observe  a  very  sin- 
gular thing  that  took  place  this  evening  wliile 
we  were  sitting  and  smoking  in  the  dining- 
room  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  tlie  other,  demurely;  "I 
noticed  you  let  I\Ir.  Ricliard  finish  one  whole 
sentence  witliout  interrujiting  him ;  it  was  a 
phenomenon  no  one  could  fail  to  observe." 

"Pooh!  pooh!  I  don't  mean  that;  those 
young  fellows  want  to  be  pulled  u])  now  and 
then.  But  did  you  see  what  old  Crawford  was 
doing  while  we  smoked  ?" 

"No;  what?" 

"Wiiy,  he  was  chewing  tobacco.  He  kept 
moving  the  quid  about  in  his  mouth  whenever 
he  tliouglit  he  was  not  observed." 

"  Nonsense.  He  was  talking,  only  you  would 
not  listen  to  a  word  he  had  to  say,  so  that  he 
might  have  seemed  to  you  to  be  only  chewing." 

"I  will  stake  my  existence,  Carlyon,  that  he 
liad  a  quid  in  his  mouth.  "Was  it  not  mon- 
strous ?" 

"  I  didn't  see  it ;  and,  therefore,  can't  say 
whether  it  was  monstrous  or  not, "  rejoined  the 
other,  laugliing. 

"  Now,  do  be  serious,  Carlyon.  I  mean,  was 
it  not  monstrous  for  a  person  in  Mr.  Crawford's 
assumed  position  to  be  doing  such  a  thing?" 

"Assumed;  why  assumed?"  inquired  the 
other,  sliarply. 

"Well,  that's  just  the  point,"  pursued  the 
doctor.  "Nobody  knows  who  he  is,  or  where 
he  hails  from.  You  have  observed,  I  dare  say, 
how  shyly  he  fights  off  any  question  about  his 
past  history.  Well,  coupling  that  peculiar  fact 
with  the  occupation  in  which  I  saw  him  engaged 
to-night  —  putting  one  and  one  together,  you 
know — I  should  be  surprised  (notwithstanding 
Puce's  opinion  to  the  contrary)  if  this  strange 
old  gentleman  has  not  sprung  from  a  very  low 
origin." 

"Well;  and  what  then?"  inquired  Carlyon, 
coolly. 

"  Well,  a  good  deal  then,  I  should  think.  I 
mean  that  this  Crawford's  relatives  and  antece- 
dents are  probably  by  no  means  what  they  ought 
to  be." 

"Yet  he  seems  to  me  to  speak  very  good 
grammar,"  returned  the  other,  laughing.  "If, 
however,"  added  he,  more  gravely,  "you  refer 


to  the  possibly  inferior  social  i)osition  of  the  an- 
cestors of  the  gentleman  with  whom  we  have 
just  condescended  to  dine,  I  honestly  tell  you  I 
have  no  symi)atliy  with  such  prejudices.  A 
man's  father  may  have  been  a  sweej)  for  all  I 
care,  so  long  as  the  color  is  not  transmitted  (I 
do  stop  at  color).  And,  by  tiie  bye,  did  you 
haj)i)en  to  observe  that  dusky  female  who  flitted 
like  a  bat  up  the  staircase  as  we  were  lighting 
our  cigars  in  the  hall  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  that  was  Cubra,  young  Mr.  Richard's 
foster-mother.  The  only  servant  whom  the 
Crawfords  brougiu  with  them  from  the  south. 
She  never  ails  in  health,  or  she  might  afford  me 
an  opportunity  for  a  harmless  experiment  I  have 
long  had  in  view,  in  respect  to  the  circulation 
of  the  blood.  Very  interesting  subject  that, 
Mr.  Carlyon." 

"  Doubtless,  doctor.  That  reminds  mc — since 
you  are  the  medical  attendant  of  ]\Ir.  Crawford, 
might  I  ask,  supjiosing  it  is  no  breach  of  pro- 
fessional confidence,  whether  he  has  any  thing 
the  matter  with  his  heart?" 

The  doctor's  rubicund  face  grew  almost  white  ; 
he  stopped  suddenly.  "What,  in  heaven's 
name,  made  you  ask  that  question  ?"  inquired 
he. 

"  Simply,  because  I  have  seen  him  start  and 
change  color  in  a  very  curious  manner  more 
than  once,  from  apparently  inadequate  causes." 

"No,  sir,  his  heart  is  as  sound  as  a  roach," 
returned  the  doctor,  abru])tly ;  "  I  wish  I  could 
say  as  much  for  all  my — jniticnts.  Well,  I  must 
wish  you  'good-night'  here,  Carlyon." 

''  Good-night,  Carstairs.  Uon't  cut  poor 
Crawford  out  of  your  visiting  list  because  you 
are  not  sure  if  his  family  came  in  with  the  Con- 
queror. Make  inquiries ;  or  give  him  the  bene- 
fit of  the  doubt." 

Laughing  gayly  the  young  squire  strode  away 
up  the  hill.  The  church-yard  cast  no  shadow  of 
death  upon  him  to-night  as  he  passed  it  swiftly 
by.  The  moonlight  sleeping  on  the  bay  had  no 
power  to  make  him  sad.  When  a  woman  has 
]iassed  the  heyday  of  her  life,  she  never  deceives 
iierself  in  respect  to  that  matter,  notwithstanding 
that  she  may  use  all  her  art  to  deceive  others  ; 
but  with  us  men  it  is  different.  There  is  an 
Indian  summer  in  many  a  man's  life  ;  a  period, 
always  brief  indeed,  but  of  uncertain  duration, 
which  takes  place  after  youth  has  fled,  and  its 
flight  been  acknowledged.  It  is  fostered  by  the 
sunshine  of  a  woman's  love,  often  only  to  be 
nip)>cd  by  the  frost  of  her  indifi'crence.  Then 
winter  sets  in  indeed. 

This  second  summer  had  suddenly  befallen 
John  Carlyon.  He  had  never  been  in  such 
high  spirits,  or  felt  so  full  of  life  since  the  time 
— a  score  of  years  ago — when  he  was  a  boy. 

"I  ought  to  have  told  him  from  the  first," 
mused  Mr.  Carstairs,  gloomily,  as  he  lit  the  flat 
candle  left  for  him  as  usual  in  his  little  liall. 
"  My  plan  for  that  poor  fellow's  welfare  has  sadly 
miscarried.  Instead  of  her  doing  him  good  she 
has  done  him  harm.  He  has  fallen  in  love  with 
her,  head  over  cars.     What  ajiasco  have  I  made 


&ARLYONS  YEAR. 


85 


of  it !  All  that  I  have  done  this  evening  is  to 
leave  an  impression  uj)on  the  company  that  Rob- 
ert Augustus  Carstairs,  was  exceedingly  drunk. 
Weil,  I  will  tell  Carlyon  to-morrow  at  all  haz- 
ards. I  was  a  coward  not  to  do  it  just  now  when 
opportunity  otfered  ;  but  he  seemed  so  fidl  of 
hope  and  life,  poor  fellow,  that  I  had  not  the 
heart." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

I  SKETCHING  RED  BERILD. 

Ix  pursuance  of  his  previous  night's  resolve 
the  doctor  called  at  "Woodlees  first  in  his  morn- 
ing's round ;  he  had  taken  one  foot  out  of  the 
stirrup,  making  sure  of  his  man  at  that  early 
hour,  when  Kobin  stopped  him  with,  "The 
young  squire's  out,  Mr.  Carstairs  ;"  then  ad- 
ded, in  a  confidential  tone,  "  he  has  ridden  over 
to  Greycrags."  And  his  old  eyes  twinkled  with 
unaccustomed  mirth.  "There  mayn't  be  any 
thing  in  it,  you  know;  I  don't  say  there  is," 
continued  he,  "  but  it  would  be  a  great  thing 
for  the  old  house,  as  you  remember,  in  the  old 
times,  to  have  a  missus,  and  Miss  Agnes,  by  all 
accounts,  is  just  the  one  to  do  him  good." 

"Yes,  Robin,  perhaps  so,"  responded  the 
doctor,  thoughtfully,  not  at  all  astonished  by  the 
terms  in  which  the  ancient  retainer  spoke  of  his 
young  master  and  his  affairs.  Carlyon 's  spirit- 
ual case  was  considered  "  interesting"  by  all  the 
orthodox  about  Mellor,  and  as  many  difterent 
remedies  had  been  recommended  by  all  classes, 
as  are  volunteered  for  the  whooping-cough.  "  I 
will  call  again  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day." 

Day  after  day  went  on,  and  Mr.  Carstairs 
called  and  called  again  at  Woodlees,  but  saw  no- 
body but  Robin,  whose  servile  smirk  was  now 
exchanged  for  a  broad  and  very  unbecoming 
grin.  "  I  have  done  my  duty,"  murmured  the 
little  doctor  to  himself  on  each  occasion  ;  tlien 
cantered  away,  not  sorry  that  his  mission  had 
ended  where  it  did,  like  an  unwilling  church- 
goer who  duly  presents  himself  at  the  sacred  ed- 
ifice and  finds  there  is  no  room  for  him. 

In  the  mean  time  Red  Berild — very  gradu- 
ally, for  Carlyon,  when  matters  were  going  too 
fast,  would  make  critical  objections,  and  cause 
a  whole  leg  to  be  rubbed  out — was  being  trans- 
ferred to  paper.  He  was  permitted  to  come 
upon  the  lawn,  where  he  stood,  now  making  fu- 
tile eff'orts  to  crop  the  short-shaven  sward,  now 
advancing  toward  his  master  and  the  fair  artist, 
to  complain  perhaps  of  the  too  great  efficacy  of 
the  grass-cutting  machine.  Like  the  French 
Government  when  revolution  threatens,  Agnes 
always  gave  him  bread  upon  such  occasions, 
which  she  kept  by  her  in  necessarily  large  quan- 
tities for  purposes  of  erasure.  The  three  made 
a  very  pretty  picture  ;  Agnes  sitting  upon  that 
ramp-stool  reclaimed  from  ocean,  Carlyon 
stretched  at  her  feet,  with  his  fine  face  bathed 
in  sunshine ;  and  the  great  horse  champing  his 
bit,  as  though  proudly  conscious  that  he  was  be- 


ing handed  down  to  posterity.  On  the  terrace- 
walk,  half  way  up  tlie  wooded  hill,  sat  Richard 
Crawford,  always  with  the  same  book  in  his 
hand,  and  the  same  leaf  of  the  book  open  before 
him. 

Atunfrcquent  intervals  Mr.  Crawford  senior's 
skeleton  form  would  stalk  out  of  the  house,  and 
cast  its  gaunt  shadow  over  the  preoccupied 
pair. 

"  How  good  it  was  of  Mr.  Carlyon  to  give  up 
his  usual  gallop  on  the  hill-side,  or  '  over  sands,' 
in  order  to  indulge  his  daughter's  whim  in  this 
fashion.  What  a  very  magnificent  creature — 
although  he  (Mr.  Crawford)  for  his  part  was  no 
horseman,  nor  a  judge  of  horses — was  Red  Ber- 
ild !  He  did  hope  so  much  that  Mr.  Carlyon 
would  honor  his  poor  house  (lunch  being  invari- 
ably over  before  the  old  gentleman  put  in  an 
appearance),  by  remaining  to  dinner." 

Thus  matters  went  on — with  the  exception 
of  the  wet  days,  tluit  are  "neither  few  nor  far 
between"  about  Alellor,  and  on  which  there  was 
no  excuse  for  Carlyon's  coming — for  weeks. 
The  conversation  between  him  and  Agnes  had 
hitherto  never  centred  upon  religious  matters, 
since  the  occasion  of  his  first  visit  to  Greycrags. 
Each  felt  that  that  was  the  only  ground  not 
common  to  both,  and,  although  one  of  them 
most  earnestly  desired  that  it  should  be  made  so, 
she  shrunk  from  the  contest  for  fear  of  its  pos- 
sible result.  Not  that  she  had  any  apprehen- 
sion for  her  own  firm  faith ;  not  that  she  was 
without  hope  of  turning  his  noble  soul  to  the 
truth ;  but,  if  she  failed  to  conquer,  something 
told  her  that  they  two  would  have  to  part ;  and 
she  was  so  happy  as  things  were.  Happy  al- 
ways in  his  presence  ;  but,  out  of  it,  when  he  had 
gone  away  no  wiser  than  he  came — not  better- 
ed, when  she  had  had  it  in  her  humble  power 
to  better  him,  or  at  least  to  try  to  do  so — her 
conscience,  tender  as  a  rose  leaf,  was  pricked. 

"Preach  the  word:  be  instant  in  season,  out 
of  season;  reprove,  rebuke."  Had  these  words 
been  addressed  to  Timothy  only,  or  to  all  true 
professors  of  the  faith  ?  She  would  repeat  them 
to  herself,  even  while  he  was  speaking  to  her  in 
his  low  earnest  tones,  as  though  they  were  a 
charm  against  witchery.  At  last  the  opportunity 
long  wished  for,  long  shrunk  from,  otfered  itself. 

He  was  speaking  of  Stejjhen  Millet,  now,  not- 
withstanding his  late  lesson,  and  vehement 
protestations  of  amendment,  become  even  a 
greater  sot  than  before,  and  a  source  of  poverty 
as  well  as  wretchedness  to  his  son. 

"The  poor  fellow  has  had  to  sell  his  very 
furniture  to  sui)port  that  old  scoundrel,"  said 
Carlyon.  "  When  I  think  of  William  Millet, 
and  of  my  Lord  Disney  over  yonder,  it  really 
almost  seems  that  Providence,  in  applying  the 
sacred  precept  of  '  Love  your  enemies.'  protects 
its  own  foes,  while  it  persecutes  its  friends." 

"That  is  indeed  only  seeming,  iMr.  Carlyon. 
The  happiest  man  in  all  this  parish,  the  richest 
(in  all  true  riches),  the  wisest,  the  best,  is  Will- 
iam. Fret  not  thyself  because  of  evil  doers,  of 
him  who  prospereth  in  the  way,  and  bringeth 


36 


CARLTON'S  YEAR. 


evil  devices  to  pass.  Nav,  do  you  believe  in 
your  inmost  iieart  that  such  a  man  as  Lord  Dis- 
ney is  hajipy  ?" 

*'  Most  certainly  I  do,  my  dear  Miss  Agnes, 
in  so  far  as  his  cajiabilities  jjcrmit.  He  is  not 
hapi>y  in  the  sense  that  you  are  happy,  but  he 
is  liai)py  enough  for  him.  The  middle  classes 
of  this  country  possess  just  so  much  religion  as 
to  make  them  uncomfortable.  They  have  too 
little  to  constitute  hap]iiness,  yet  too  much  to 
])ermit  of  them  enjoying  tiicmselves.  Now,  tiie 
aristocracy,  to  do  them  justice,  are  not  restrain- 
ed from  indulging  in  any  jjleasure  by  considera- 
tions of  its  sinfulness.  Nor  do  they  lose  the 
respect  of  society  by  so  doing,  for  the  Bible  of 
the  said  middle  classes  is  bound  uj)  with  tiieir 
l\'era(jc^  and  merely  forms  a  sup])lemcnt  to  it, 
unless  when  they  are  at  doatli's  door,  and  the 
choice  has  to  be  abruptly  made  between  their 
duty  to  the  Lord  of  Lords,  or  to  persons  of  title 
generally.  Even  the  clergy  are  thus  divided 
in  allegiance  ;  or  else,  like  some  we  wot  of,  they 
boldly  throw  in  their  lot  with  the  latter,  and  be- 
come, as  it  were,  private  chaplains  to  the  hered- 
itary aristocracy— than  which  occupation,  by  the 
bye,  in  the  literal  sense,  I  can  fancy  nothing 
queerer.  Think  of  it:  Paul  accepting  tlie  post 
of  private  soul-keeper  to  a  nobleman  of  the  neigh- 
borhood ;  or  still  worse  (since  it  would  be  a  spir- 
itual sinecure),  to  one  not  of  the  neighborhood  ! 
Upon  the  whole,  I  must  say,  for  religious  folks, 
that  they  have  the  smallest  sense  of  humor,  the 
greatest  obtuseness  with  respect  to  their  own 
anomalies  and  contradictions,  and  I  may  add, 
the  least  understanding  of  the  principles  of  their 
own  creed  of  any  people  I  know.  Have  not  the 
true  faith  with  respect  of  persons — the  whole 
chapter  is  addressed  to  these  idiots-;  but  it  might 
just  as  well  not  have  been  written,  we  are  told, 
since  they  grovel  at  the  feet  of  any  fellow-crea- 
ture, however  base,  who  happens  to  have  a  tag 
to  his  name.  Look  at  the  behavior  of  your  re- 
ligious folks  about  Mellor,  in  regard  to  his  lord- 
s!iip,  for  instance.  INIy  sister  Meg  is  almost 
cliaritable  when  she  speaks  of  his  little  pecca- 
dillos. Mr.  Puce  himself  dined  at  the  great- 
house  last  week,  in  company  which  I  can  not 
speak  of  before  you." 

He  spoke  with  uncommon- energy  and  passion, 
though  never  raising  his  voice  beyond  its  usual 
tone  ;  his  cheeks  Hushed  briglitly,  his  eyes  flash- 
ed scornful  fire.  Agnes,  on  the  other  hand, 
grew  very  white,  and  her  hand,  so  cold  that  it 
could  scarcely  hold  the  brush,  trembled  e.\ceed- 
ingly.  She  felt  that  tiic  time  was  come  for  her 
to  si)eak. 

"This  may  be  very  true,  Mr.  Carlyon,"  re- 
turned she,  after  a  pause,  "concerning  the  pro- 
fessors of  the  truth — or  at  least  some  of  them — 
because,  as  you  say,  they  are  ignorant  of  the 
very  jirinciples  they  jirofess.  But  if  ignorant, 
wliy  be  angry  with  them  ?  why  scourge  them 
witii  such  terrible  words,  when  tliey  only  (as  you 
allow)  need  teaching?  If  we  do  not  love  our 
brother  whom  we  have  known,  how  can  we 
love  God  whom  we  have  not  known?" 


"Indeed,  my  dear  Miss  Agnes,"  rejoined 
Carlyon,  smiling,  "I  think  there  is  something 
wrong  about  that  text,  for  I  am  sure  I  should 
have  a  much  greater  regard  for  sister  Meg,  if 
I  had  never  had  the  misfortune  to  know  her. 
Still,  as  you  hint,  my  expressions  were  not  char- 
itable, and  I  retract  them.  Come,  you  see  you 
are  doing  mc  good,  rejirobate  that  I  am  ;  and, 
also,  please  to  observe  tiiat  I  might  have  be- 
haved much  worse  by  railing  against  religion 
itself,  instead  of  its  professors." 

"  I  can  not  go  with  you  tlicre,  ^Ir.  Carlyon," 
replied  Agnes,  gravely.  "  I  have  always  held 
that  to  speak  evil  recklessly  against  our  fellow- 
creatures  is  worse  than  to  speak  blasphemy 
against  the  Most  High.  We  can  not  hurt  Him 
by  any  thing  we  say.  He  can  redress  his  own 
wrongs  in  a  terrible  fasiiion ;  we  are  very  sure 
of  that,  although  He  may  not  use  the  thunder- 
bolt upon  the  instant.  But  Man,  whom  he  has 
also  bidden  men  to  love,  is  weak ;  our  words 
may  injure  him  in  reputation — in  a  thousand 
ways — nay,  they  may  embitter  his  veiy  soul." 

"  And  do  you  say  the  same  of  deeds.  Miss 
Agnes,  in  relation  to  man  and  his  Creator?" 

"  Undoubtedly.  Can  any  sacrilege  be  equal 
in  guilt  to  an  act  of  oppression,  or  rather  is 
not  oppression  the  very  highest  sacrilege  against 
the  poor,  who  are  God's  peculiar  peojile  ?" 

"Very  good,  and  very  true,"  snid  Carlyon. 
"  Then  the  sin  of  unbelief,  the  intellectual 
misfortune  of  not  being  able  to  credit  the  state- 
ments of  the  Bible,  you  must  allow  is  not  to 
be  comjiared  in  point  of  enormity  to  tlie  sin  of 
leading  a  wicked — that  is,  a  cruel  and  remorse- 
less— life  " 

Agnes  was  silent ;  her  heart  beat  so  strongly 
that  she  could  hear  it  in  that  still  sultry  noon  ; 
she  heard  the  horse  cropping  the  grass ;  she 
thought  she  heard  her  ever-watchful  cousin 
crumbling  the  leaves  of  his  book  as  he  leaned 
forward  to  listen  to  her  reply. 

"  If  faith  without  works  is  dead,"  continued 
Carlyon,  earnestly,  "  faith  with  bad  works 
must  be  surely  rotten.  Now  what  I  want  to 
know  is  this — I  am  not  speaking  of  myself  in 
the  matter,  for  I  do  nothing  to  boast  of,  God 
knows — but  are  good  works  without  fiuth  in 
your  opinion  valueless,  Miss  Agnes?" 

If  he  was  not  speaking  of  himself,  it  was, 
slie  well  knew,  of  him  that  she  had  to  speak, 
when  she  should  answer.  There  were  texts 
enough  ready  to  her  hand,  crushing  ones,  final 
ones,  such  as  Mr.  Puce  would  have  clapped  on 
quickly  enough,  like  hatches  upon  a  mutinous 
crew  in  the  Tropics,  and  yet  she  hesitated.  A 
harsh  and  uncharitable  dogma  from  her  lips — 
that  is,  one  that  Avould  seem  so  to  this  unre- 
generate  man  might  do  the  very  mischief  it 
was  her  intention  to  avert.  He  had  never 
given  himself  the  opportunities  of  grace — what 
if  she  should  throw  away  this  chance  by  any 
s])iritual  indiscretion,  and  so  through  hir  (of 
all  j)eo])le)  tliis  soul  (of  all  souls)  should  perish  ! 

"  You  say  you  do  not  speak  of  yourself. 
Mr.   Carlvon  :    but   I  can  not  affect   to   agr.N 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


87 


with  you — at  least,  altogether — in  that.  Is  it 
possible  that  you  have  no  belief  iu  religion  ?" 

"  I  do  not  quite  say  tbat,"  returned  Carlyon, 
frankly  ;  "  it  is  indeed  imj)Ossible  to  he  so  rank 
an  infidel  in  the  presence  of  so  i)ure  a  disii- 
pie-" 

She  stopped  him  with  a  reproving  finger, 
and  a  face  very  stern  and  sad. 

"Do  not  trifle  witli  me,  Mr.  Carlyon;  but 
.inswcr  me  honestly,  and  like — if  that  is  all  I 
may  adjure  you  by — and  like  a  gentleman." 

"  Well,  dear  lady,  I  will  say  this  much. 
Your  religion  is  good  for  jioor  folks,  I  do  be- 
lieve, and  admirably  adapted  for  them,  al- 
tliongh,  as  I  have  said,  the  upper  classes  can 
make  nothing  of  it.  Your  remark  about 
William  Millet,  for  instance,  was  in  my  opin- 
ion a  just  one.  He  comforts  himself  iu  the  ab- 
sence of  earthly  blessings,  with  dreams  of 
heaven.  The  wei,L;hticr  his  cross  here,  the 
richer,  he  thinks,  his  crown  hereafter.  The 
devout  countrymen  of  our  friend  Mistress 
Cubra,  who  hope  to  gain  Paradise  by  self- 
torture,  present  only  an  exaggerated  phase  of 
the  same  superstition.  Don't  be  angry  with 
me,  Agnes,"  added  he  pleadingly,  taederly  ; 
•'don't  look  like  that.  I  was  obliged  to  be 
honest  with  you.  You  would  not  have  had  me 
tell  you  a  lie." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  her  lips  moved 
twice  or  thrice  without  sound. 

"No,"  murmured  she,  presently;  "I  sup- 
pose a  lie  would  have  been  worse  even  than 
what  you  have  said.  I  am  not  angry,  sir,  God 
knows — I  almost  wish  I  were  ;  but  I  would 
have  given  this  right  hand  to  have  heard  you 
answer  differently.  The  Psalmist  says  that  he 
never  beheld  the  seed  of  the  righteous  begging 
their  bread  ;  but,  how  mucli  more  teirible  is 
this,  that  the  son  of  a  righteous  man  should 
deny  his  God  I" 

She  dropped  her  head  upon  her  lap,  and 
wept  like  one  who  feels  she  has  lost  forever 
him  tliat  is  dearest  to  her. 

"Shall  I  tell  you.  Miss  Crawford,"  said 
Carlyon,  in  an  altered  voice,  not  moved  by 
her  tears,  but  cold  and  bitter  in  its  tone, 
"  shall  I  tell  you  how  it  was  I  became  a 
heretic  ?" 

"Became,  sir!  it  is  not  possible  that  such 
as  you  can  have  once  found  God  and  then  lost 
him.  And  yet  I  have  heard  of  something  of 
this  before  ;  with  such  a  father  it  could  not  be 
but  that  you  were  brought  up  in  the  right  way  : 
and  after  that  to  go  astray  !  Alas  !  alas  !  '  it 
is  impossible, '  it  is  written,  '  if  they  shall  then 
fall  away,  to  renew  them  again.'  " 

The  despair  in  the  young  girl's  face  was  un- 
speakable, as  though,  with  those  tender  eyes, 
she  had  herself  seen  the  open  door  of  heaven 
closed  in  his  face. 

"  Miss  Crawford,  I  am  beyond  measure 
shocked  to  have  caused  you  such  pain  ;  I  was 
about  to  say — not  in  justification,  indeed,  but 
in  explanation  of  my  opinions,  that  there  had 
been  reasons  unguessed  at — " 


"  But  with  God  nothing  shall  be  impossible," 
murmured  Agnes,  under  her  breatii  ;  "  why 
did  I  not  think  of  that  before  ?  Yes,  yes — I 
beg  your  pardon,  sir,  you  were  saying — " 

"  I  was  about  to  tell  you  something  that 
has  been  a  secret  between  me  and  the  dead  for 
many  a  year.  Promise  me  to  kecj)  it,  when 
you  have  heard  it,  as  though  it  bad  never  been 
told." 

"  I  promise." 

"  Listen,  tlien." 


CHAPTER  xnr. 

HOW  JOHN  CARLYON  BECAME  A   HERETIC. 

With  hesitation  and  evident  reluctance,  with 
his  face  averted  from  the  listener,  and  at  first 
hammering  the  daisy  iieads  upon  the  lawn  with 
tlie  handle  of  his  riding-whip,  John  Carlyon 
began — 

"  My  father,  as  no  doubt  you  have  heard. 
Miss  Crawford,  on  all  hands,  was  indeed  a  con- 
stant churchgoer,  and  he  brought  me  up  in  the 
same  path.  There  was  no  man  more  respected, 
altjiougli  I  do  not  think  he  was  loved,  in  all 
this  neigiiborhood.  He  not  only  never  offend- 
ed against  the  proprieties,  but  he  was  a  stead- 
fast upholder  of  them — what  is  called  one  of 
the  safeguards  of  society.  That  was  the  gen- 
eral opinion  of  him  to  the  day  of  his  death ; 
but  it  was  a  mistaken  one.  He  was  a  hypocrite 
from  first  to  last ;  his  whole  life  was  one  huge 
lie." 

j  "Mr.  Carlyon!"  exclaimed  Agnes;  "you 
make  ray  blood  run  cold  ;  not  so  much  by  what 
you  say,  wliich  seems  almost  too  terrible  to  be 
true,  but  at  your  manner  of  saying  it." 

"  When,  however,  I  first  found  out  the  truth, 
young  lady,  I  was  more  moved  than  I  am  now. 

{  Tlie  student  of  anatomy  faints  at  his  intro- 
duction to  the  dissecting-room;  but,  after  a 
while,  he  ceases  to  shudder  at  its  revelations. 
He  sees  what  lies  behind  the  velvet  cheek  of 
beauty,  and  the  keen  eye  of  wit,  but  it  affects 
him  little.  He  knows  that  with  all  luimanity 
it  is  the  same.  He  has  his  advantage  over  me 
in  that  respect.  If  I  could  think  that  behind 
the  veil  of  religion,  the  cloak  of  respectability, 
tlie  infidel  and  the  debauchee  were  inwardly 
concealed,  I  should  loathe  my  own  father  less ; 
but  I  know  there  are  honest  folks  in  tiie  world. 

,  I  know  that  you,  Agnes,  are  as  ]nire  as  you 

;  look,  as  good  as  you  seem.     But  tliis  man,  that 

j  was  my  own  flesh  and  blood,  to  whom  I  owe 
my   being,  to  whom   I  was  bound   by  Nature 

j  herself  to  respect  and  honor — oh,  spare  me  !  I 
can  not  bear  to  speak  of  it." 

i  "  Even  a  good  man  may  err  and  give  way 
to  strong  temptation,"  whispered  Agnes;  "yet 
if  he  repents — " 

"Tins  man  did  not  repent,"  broke  in  Car- 
lyon, almost  fiercely.  "  He  had  nothing  to 
repent  of;  for  in  his  eyes  nothing  was  sin, 
nothing  was  vice,  nothing  was  wrong — unless 

i  it  was  found  out.     Then  indeed  he  would  have 


38 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


been  sorry.  He  was  a  tyrant,  and  he  broke 
my  mother's  heart.  I  will  never  forgive  him 
that !  She  was  beautiful,  gentle,  guileless  as 
yourself,  and  he  killed  her.  She  prayed  for 
him  u])on  her  death-l)ed,  and  he  despised  her 
prayer  ;  I  do  believe  that  that  was  the  bitterest 
drop  she  had  to  drain  in  the  whole  cup  of  her 
wretched  married  life.  She  made  me  promise 
not  to  tell  him  what  I  knew,  and  not  to  tell 
the  world.  I  had  to  live  on  with  this  murder- 
er for  years,  a  j)artici])ator  in  his  acted  lie,  and 
hoodwinked,  as  he  thought,  like  the  rest.  lie 
deceived  every  body — yes,  every  body — parson, 
people,  neighbors,  servants.  Robin,  at  home, 
believes  him  to  this  day  to  have  been  the  best 
of  men.  A  tyrant  and  a  libertine,  he  was  yet 
reckoned  the  most  pious  man  in  Mellor  parish. 
This  was  the  sort  of  father,  Agnes,  from  whom 
I  learned  how  to  be  religious." 

"Mr.  Carlyon,"  returned  she,  thoughtfully, 
after  a  long  pause,  "are  you  sure — are  you 
quite  sure,  that  in  your  great  love  for  such  a 
mother  as  you  describe,  and  in  your  own  ten- 
derness of  heart,  you  may  not  have  taken  stern- 
ness for  cruelty?" 

He  shook  his  head  impatiently. 

"  Some  men,"  she  went  on,  "not  naturally 
cruel,  I  have  known  to  be  without  tenderness 
of  manner,  even  to  those  dearest  to  them ; 
rugged  and  harsh  even  when  their  wives  lay 
a-dying,  and  yet  not  heartless." 

"No,  girl,  this  man  was  not  rugged.  He 
knew  how  to  frame  tenderest  words  for  ears 
that  should  have  blushed  to  listen  to  them. 
Of  some  men,  it  is  said,  '  we  never  knew  his 
worth  until  we  lost  him  ;'  now  /  never  knew 
how  base  a  father  I  had  got  until  he  came  to 
die." 

"Ah!  he  confessed  his  sins,  aiid  the  long 
catalogue  appalled  you !"  exclaimed  Agnes, 
clasping  her  hands.  "You  should  thank  God 
for  that.  Perhaps  in  that  last  hour,  all  was 
forgiven  him.  No  one  can  fathom  tlie  infinite 
depths  of  Divine  mercy.  Let  us  hope,  let  us 
pray,  that  he  may  have  been  preserved  from 
that  awful  state  of  which  he  stood  in  dread." 

"  Nay,  Agnes,  we  Carlyons  have  no  fear," 
observed  her  companion  proudly. 

"  No  fear!"  echoed  she,  in  scorn.  "  What! 
had  this  man,  living,  as  you  say,  a  lie,  for  fear 
of  the  opinion  of  his  neighbors,  no  fear? 
Does  cowardice,  then,  among  infidels,  solely 
consist  in  being  afraid  of  the  righteous  judg- 
ments of  God  ?  If  so,  '  obtuseness  with  re- 
spect to  their  own  anomalies  and  contradictions, 
is  surely  not  entirely  peculiar  to  religious  peo- 
ple." 

Carlyon  bit  his  lip. 

"It  would  surely  be  the  rankest  cowardice 
to  be  afraid  of  that  in  the  existence  of  which 
one  docs  not  believe,"  said  he,  evasively. 
"The  man  I  speak  of  died,  laughing  in  his 
sleeve  at  the  world  he  had  cajoled.  He  had 
been  a  wanderer  in  many  lands,  and  examined 
a  hundred  creeds,  only  to  find  one  as  worthless 
as  another.     His  god  was  Self,   and  he  had 


served  him  very  faithfully.  His  last  advice  to 
me,  his  only  son,  was  given  when  the  grave  was 
gaj)ing  for  him  ;  we  were  alone  together,  and 
he  upon  the  sofa  that  was  to  be  his  death-bed, 
and  he  knew  it  ;  the  very  room  has  been  hate- 
ful to  me  ever  since.  He  bid  me  lie  like  him ; 
be  serious  and  devout ;  affect  the  virtues  that  I 
had  not,  for  the  very  vices'  sake  which  they 
concealed.  So  should  I  live  a  life  of  ease  and 
yet  of  dignity,  and  die  with  honor,  troops  of 
friends,  and  all  the  regard  that  accompanies 
the  close  of  a  life  well  spent.  He  would,  as  it 
were,  have  bequeathed  me  his  very  mantle  of 
deceit,  having  no  farther  occasion  for  it  him- 
self, like  some  poor  conjuror,  who  teaches  his 
tricks  to  his  children  while  he  lies  a-dying,  as 
the  best  legacy  he  has  to  leave  them." 

"Mr.  Carlyon,  this  is  too  horrible  to  be  be- 
lieved," gasped  Agnes.  "  Nature  does  not  per- 
mit of  such  a  father.  I  have  seen  many  death- 
beds, and  when  death  is  claiming  us  we  are 
often  not  ourselves ;  the  senses  are  disordered, 
the  mind  wanders ;  men  impute  to  themselves 
sins  which  they  have  never  committed." 

"But  not  this  man,  Agnes.  Do  you  sup- 
])Ose  tl»it  I  would  not  believe  so  if  I  could ; 
that  I  have  not  exhausted  ever)-  suggestion 
that  could  lighten  this  load  which  has  so  weigh- 
ed down  my  life?  No.  He  told  me  the  truth 
at  last.  He  left  behind  him  only  too  ample 
corroboration  of  it.  No  one  is  so  prudent  that 
he  can  guard  his  memory  after  death.  No 
man,  who  keeps  a  check-book,  can  dare  say 
'  I  do  not  keep  a  journal ;'  besides  there  were 
letters  that  came  for  him  long  after  he  was 
lying  in  his  grave — but  wliy  all  this  ?  You 
know  his  secret  now,  which  I  have  hitherto 
preserved  inviolate.  Do  you  wonder  tliat  I 
loathe  religion  ;  that  '  the  very  name  of  Naza- 
rene  is  wormwood  to  my  Paynim  spleen,'  and 
synonymous  with  all  that  is  false  and  fair- 
seeming?  That,  from  the  instant  that  I  found 
myself  freed  by  this  man's  death  from  my 
promise  to  my  mother,  that  I  forsook  his  hypo- 
critical ways  and  all  belonging  to  them?" 

"  I  do  not  wonder,  ]\Ir.  Carlyon,"  said  Ag- 
nes, sorrowfully;  "I  do  not  even  say  (as  oth- 
ers would),  why  doubt  the  genuineness  of  that 
thing  of  which  you  have  only  witnessed  a 
fraudulent  imitation.  We  are  molded,  I 
know,  by  the  iron  force  of  circumstances — 
though  not  all  of  us.  Your  mother  did  not 
lose  her  faith  in  Heaven  because  your  father 
had  none?" 

"My  mother?  No,"  answered  Carlyon,  in 
hushed  and  reverent  tones. 

"  She  was  a  Christian  woman  to  the  last  ?" 

"  She  was  an  angel :  to  inii)utc  wrong  to  her 
would  be  to  confuse  wrong  with  right." 

"And  has  the  thought  of  her — of  her  long- 
suffering  patience,  and  forgiveness  —  never 
moved  you  toward  the  faith  your  father  pro- 
fessed, but  which  she  i)racticed  ?" 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought  there  should  be 
an  immortality  for  such  as  she  ;  that  so  much 
goodness  ought  not  surely  to  be  allowed  to  per- 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


89 


ish.  I  have  thought  so  lately  of  one  other 
person  also — of  you,  Agues." 

"  Hush,  sir,  hush  !  1  am  very  different 
from  this  saint  in  heaven.  If  she  hail  lived,  I 
can  not  but  think  her  love,  her  teaching,  her 
example  would  have  won  you  to  her  creed,  as 
to  herself.  You  felt  bcttiM- — hapjiier — when 
vou  were  in  her  presence,  did  you  not?" 

"  Yes,  I  did,''  replied  Carlyon,  eagerly;  "as 
I  feel  wlien  I  am  in  yours.  Yes,  Agnes — do 
not  shrink  from  me  ;  I  will  do  my  best — only 
I  will  not  lie — to  learn  better  tilings  of  you. 
Will  you  teach  me,  even  althougii  I  do  not 
promise  to  learn  ?" 

He  looked  up  in  her  face  for  tlie  first  time, 
while  she,  tlic  heretofore  questioner,  drooped 
her  eyelids,  and  a  fire  burned  in  her  ciieeks. 

"  Can  you  not  take  coni]jassion  upon  me, 
even  though  I  am  a  heretic  'i"  urged  he  with 
tenderness ;  but  slie  heard  him  not. 

"  If  any  man  love  not  tlie  Loi'd,  let  him  be 
anathema,  maranatha,"  were  the  words  which 
she  seemed  to  hear. 

'•Go  to  some  wise  and  holy  man,"  said  she, 
in  a  faint  voice. 

"  To  Mr.  Puee  ?"  asked  he  ;  "  or  to  whom  ? 
No,  I  shall  sit  at  the  feet  of  this  Gamaliel, 
Agnes  Crawford,  or  of  none.  I  love  you  wijh 
all  my  heart ;  nay,  I  can  well  believe — so  won- 
drous is  the  change  through  all  my  being — with 
all  my  soul.  I  seem  to  have  another  life  be- 
yond myself,  and  if  that  be  my  soul,  it  is  you 
who  are  its  keeper,  for  to  you  it  flies.  Will 
you  be  my  teacher  ?  Will  you  be  my  wife  ? 
one  word,  one  '  yes,'  will  answer  both  ques- 
tions." But  there  came  no  answer.  He  could 
not  even  read  one  in  her  face,  for  it  was  hidden 
closely  in  her  hands.  She  was  speaking, 
though  her  speech  was  inarticulate,  but  not  to 
him. 

"I  know  you  will  never  marry — an  infidel," 
said  he,  slowly. 

"  Never,  never,"  answered  she,  with  eager- 
ness. It  was  quite  a  relief  to  her  to  get  so  cat- 
egorical a  question,  and  one  to  which  she  could 
so  unhesitatingly  reply. 

"Yet  you  will  not  reject  my — proposition; 
you  will  not  refuse  to  afford  me  an  opportunity 
of  being  convinced?" 

"I  can  not  say,"  murmured  she;  "I  must 
have  time,  Mr.  Carlyon,  to  think  of  this.  Do 
not  press  me  for  your  answer — that  is,  just 
now.  In  your  presence,  I  can  not — I  must  be 
alone,"  added  she,  hurriedly.  "I  must  ask 
guidance." 

"I  venture  to  think,"  interrupted  Carlyon, 
respectfully,  "  that  your  father  will  be  no  ob- 
struction." 

Her  face  flushed  from  brow  to  chin.  "I  was 
not  referring  to  my  father,"  said  she,  coldly. 

"  I  trust,"  returned  he,  earnestly,  "  I  have 
not  been  too  bold — not  said  too  much  and  too 
soon.  Pardon  me,  Agnes  ;  do  not  let  the  great- 
ness of  my  love  be  the  cause  of  my  undoing. 
If  my  presence  is  an  embarrassment  to  you,  you 
will  write,  perhaps  ?" 


"  Yes,  I  will  write!"  exclaimed  she,  eagerly; 
"  to-night,  to-morrow.     It  will  be  better  so." 

He  rose  at  once,  and  took  iier  hanil  in  liis. 

"  Whatever  you  may  so  write,  Agnes,"  said 
lie,  slowly,  "  \viii  be  my  law.  If  you  decide 
against  me,  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  this 
wicked  person,  to  avoid  tlie  toucliing  of  jjitcli. 
lest  even  your  pure  soul  may  be  defiled,  1  shall 
understand  it.  It  will  be  unnecessary  to  state 
reasons.  The  one  word  'no'  will  suffice;  I 
had  rather  that  you  wrote  nothing  more.  I 
will  never  trouble  you  again.  I  shall  have 
turned  my  back  on  Paradise  forever.  But 
if — if  you  think  within  yourself  that  I  may 
be  won  to  what  you  deem  the  right — mind,  I  do 
not  say  it  is  even  jirobable,  for  1  will  not  use 
lies  to  gain  Heaven  itself — and  if  won,  tliat  you 
might,  in  time,  even  stoop  to  love  me,  I  shall 
understand  that  also,  by  one  word,  'yes.'  " 

Wiiat  would  he  not  have  given  to  hav6  touch- 
ed her  white  brow  witii  his  lips,  as  she  stood 
close  beside  him,  downcast,  thoughtful,  with  her 
snow-cold  hand  in  his !  It  was  not  "because 
every  window,  for  all  that  he  knew,  might  have 
had  its  watcher,  or  because  her  cousin  was  play- 
ing the  sjiy  as  usual,  upon  yonder  terrace,  that 
Carlyon  did  not  do  so.  It  was  not  for  fear 
of  tlu'iii,  that,  having  raised  those  fingers  midway 
to  his  lips,  he  let  them  fall  again,  and  turned 
away  in  silence,  while  Red  Bcrild  followed,  do- 
cile, with  a  hasty  farewell  crop  at  the  scanty 
grass.  To  have  kissed  her  would  have  been 
very  sweet,  but  it  might  have  demanded  its 
dread  memories  for  years. 

Heavy  of  heart,  the  strong  man  took  the  road 
from  Greycrags  homeward ;  while  his  good 
horse  pressing  his  great  nose  against  his  hand, 
strove  vainly  to  give  his  master  comfort. 

Agnes  remained  standing  in  her  place,  deep 
in  thought,  till  a  book  fell  heavily  upon  the  ter- 
race-walk, and  a  well-known  step  liegan  to  des- 
cend the  hill ;  then,  at  it's  first  foot-fall,  she  start- 
ed from  her  reverie  and  hastening  in,  sought  her 
own  chamber,  where  she  remained  for  hours. 

Her  mind  was  torn  with  antagonistic  emo- 
tions. She  would  never  marry  an  unbeliever, 
that  was  certain ;  to  that  she  clung,  and  revert- 
ed to  it  again  and  again  ;  it  was  her  sheet-an- 
chor in  the  storm.  But  had  she  not  grown  to 
love  one?  Was  she  not  paltering  witli  her  own 
conscience  in  this  matter  ?  and  even  with  still 
more  sacred  things?  Did  she  honestly  believe 
herself  to  be  a  bearer  of  God's  message  to  those 
unwilling  ears  ;  or  was  not  her  strong  desire  to 
convert  the  sceptic,  alloyed  with  a  wish  to  win 
the  man?  Agnes  Crawford  was  not  a  student 
of  Pope,  or  she  might  almost  have  applied  to 
herself,  the  self-accusation  of  Eloisa — 

E'en  then  to  those  dread  altars  as  I  dre\7, 
Not  on  the  cross  my  eyes  were  fi.xed,  hut  you ; 
Not  (Jr.-iee  nor  Zeal,  Lcive  only  was  ray  call, 
And  if  I  lose  thy  love  I  lose  ray  all. 

Hour  after  hour  passed  by  ;  the  luncheon  bell 
rang,  but  she  took  no  heed  ;  but,  late  in  the  aft- 
ernoon, a  knock  came  to  her  chamber  door, 
and  a  voice  in  mocking  tones  (or  what,  per- 


40 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


liajjs,  she  fancifully  imagined  to  be  so),  reached 
her  through  tiie  key-hole,  saying,  *'  Missie  Ag- 
nes, you  are  wanted  in  the  jjarlor;  Mrs.  New- 
man's come,  and  wish  to  sec  you  very  partick- 
ier." 

"Mr.  Carlyon's  sister!"  murmured  Agnes  to 
herself,  wliile  a  sudden  p.ain  seemed  to  shoot 
througli  her  heart ;  "  why  should  she  come 
here  ?"  But  slie  answered,  in  her  usual  firm, 
clear  tones,  "  Very  well,  Cubra;  tell  her  I  will 
be  down  directly." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
MRS.  Newman's  act  of  charity. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Carlyon's  visits 
to  Greycrags  passed  without  notice  among  the 
good  folks  of  Mellor.  The  apjietite  of  that 
small  community  for  gossip  was  absolutely  in- 
satiable ;  it  was  quite  a  trade  with  more  than 
one  respectable  female  to  make  it,  and  even  to 
invent  the  matei'ials.  So  that  when  a  subject 
for  it  was  found,  that  could  be  relied  upon  as 
fact,  good  solid  substratum  for  all  sorts  of  scan- 
dal, the  public  satisfaction  was  unbounded.  But 
not  in  all  cases  the  private.  Mrs.  Newman,  of 
Mellor  Lodge — a  place  that  had  been  once 
termed  the  Priory,  but  it  was  not  to  be  supposed 
that  so  good  a  Protestant  would  call  her  resi- 
dence by  that  name — was  by  no  means  jdeased 
with  the  reports  that  reached  her  from  all  quar- 
ters concerning  her  brotiier's  proceedings.  She 
had  long  "  washed  her  hands  of  him,"  in  a  spir- 
itual sens-e ;  she  had  excommunicated  him  in 
an  almost  episcopal  manner,  by  throwing  her 
hands  up  and  shutting  her  eyes,  at  solemn  con- 
clave over  many  a  tea-table ;  but  she  had  never 
'shut  her  eyes  to  his  ]iroperty,  which  was  entire- 
ly at  his  own  disposal.  She  anticijiated  with 
confidence  the  reversion  of  Woodlccs  for  herself 
and  Jed  (short  and  loving  for  Jedediah),  her 
son,  when  its  present  unworthy  occu])ant  should 
be — elsewliere ;  for  Carlyon  was  her  senior  by 
five  years.  It  was  astonishing  with  what  calm- 
ness and  fortitude  this  excellent  woman  reflect- 
ed upon  the  future  fate — the  terrors  which  she 
honestly  believed  to  be  in  store — for  so  near  a 
relative.  Upon  one  occasion,  while  discoursing 
u])On  this  particular  topic,  which  was  a  very  fa- 
vorite one  with  her,  she  was  rebuked  by  no  less  a 
person  than  the  archdeacon  of  the  diocese.  For 
archdeacons,  as  such,  she  had  no  great  rever- 
ence ;  but  this  one  ]iai)])ened  to  be  own  nepliew 
to  my  Lord  Disney,  and  she  had  that  admira- 
tion for  nol)Ie  birth  which  supplies  the  place  of 
such  a  multitude  of  other  virtues  in  minds  like 
hers.  He  bade  her  not  to  make  too  sure  of  the 
eternity  of  the  torments  of  the  wicked,  and  ex- 
plained to  her  the  doubts  entertained  by  the 
learned  of  the  literal  meaning  of  the  word 
au'ovioc.  "Not,"  added  he,  with  a  benignant 
smile,  "that  that  much  alters  matters;  for  the 
duration  signified  doubtless  extends  to  millions 
and  millions  of  vears." 


*'  That  is  some  comfort,"  quoth  Mrs.  Newman 
cheerfully,  and  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

But,  notwithstanding  this  opinion  of  Carly- 
on's deserts,  she  had  always  counted  upon  his 
leaving  Woodlccs  and  the  rest  of  his  property 
to  his  own  flesh  and  blood.  Not  to  provide  for 
one's  family  is  (as  is  well-known)  to  be  worse 
than  an  infidel,  and  Meg  had  never  thought 
worse  of  brother  John  than  that.  Yet,  lo !  at 
an  age  when  he  might  be  supposed  to  have  al- 
most escajjcd  the  perils  of  matrimony,  here  was 
he  visiting  Greycrags  daily,  with  a  motive  that 
it  was  easy  to  guess  at.  Jedediah,  indeed,  who 
was  of  a  frank  and  open  nature,  even  for 
eighteen,  alluded  to  it  one  morning  at  breakfast 
in  the  following  terms. 

"I  say,  mother!  Uncle  John  is  after  that 
gal  at  Greycrags — Miss  What-d'ye-call-um — 
Crawford." 

"  Seeking  to  ally  himself  matrimonially  with 
that  young  woman,  Jed  ?     Impossible  I" 

"Glad  you  think  so,"  answered  Jedediah, 
gruffly,  and  filling  his  mouth  with  muffin  ;  he 
was  rather  gluttonous  in  his  habits,  and  also  a 
good  deal  spoiled.  If  his  mother  was  stern  to 
others,  she  was  not  so  with  him  ;  he  had  always 
done  as  he  liked  from  his  childhood,  and  he 
had  generally  liked  what  was  not  good  for  him. 
He  was  vicious  beyond  what  she  had  any  sus- 
picion of,  and  his  good-nature  was  of  tlie  sort 
that  only  lasts  so  long  as  its  proprietor  is 
pleased.  Mrs.  Newman  was  getting,  as  all 
such  mothers  do  in  time,  a  little  afraid  of  her 
darling  son." 

"You  needn't  be  cross,  Jedediah,"  said  she, 
quietly;  "I  was  only  asking  for  information. 
The  attairs  of  tliis  world  have,  I  am  thankful  to 
say,  no  great  interest  in  my  eyes,  and  those  who 
know  me  do  not  much  trouble  me  with  them. 
I  have,  however,  heard  a  rumor  of  what  you 
speak  of,  although  I  have  never  suspected  any 
thing  serious  in  it.  I  am  not  one  of  a  suspi- 
cious nature,  Jed." 

"Ah,"  said  the  young  man,  dryly — so  dryly, 
indeed,  that  the  tone  would  have  suited  "  Bah" 
equally  well ;  "I  wish  for  my  sake,  then,  if  not 
for  your  own,  that  you'd  just  look  alive  and  put 
a  stop  to  it.  It's  a  most  disgraceful  thing. 
Why,  if  uncle  marries,  there  may  be  a  whole 
kit  of  children,  and  then  what  becomes  of  those 
alterations  that  you  are  always  talking  about 
making  when  we  come  into  Woodlccs?" 

Between  Mrs.  Newman  and  her  brother,  al- 
though their  characters,  and  therefore  the  ex- 
pression of  their  countenances  were  so  diflfer- 
ent,  there  was  a  considerable  personal  resem- 
blance. Although  she  did  not  dress  becoming- 
ly, and,  indeed,  wore  clothes  of  a  texture  much 
inferior  to  what  is  usual  with  women  of  her  so- 
cial position,  and  wore  them  threadbare,  she 
always  looked  a  lady ;  but  when  annoyed,  her 
thin  lips  shut  together  un]deasaiitly  close; 
her  fine  blue  eyes  seemed  to  harden,  and  she 
sniffed  like  the  war-horse  that  scents  the  battle, 
only  of  course  in  a  lower  key.  There  had  been 
a  passage  of  arms  between  herself  and  Jedediah 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


41 


that  morning  iu  reference  to  a  scarcity  of  mar- 
malade at  tiie  brealifast-table,  and  he  had  car- 
ried his  point  and  got  a  new  pot.  This  had 
given  her  real  j)ain,  as  extravagance  always 
did.  There  were  still  a  few  stale  stri])s  stick- 
ing to  the  little  glass  dish,  and  she  wonld  have 
liked  to  have  seen  them  eaten  before  being  driv- 
en to  the  preserve  cu])board  for  a  fresli  supply. 
Jed  had  even  taunted  her,  at  the  height  of  the 
discussion,  with  those  prudential  habits  which 
her  enemies  (for  the  good  lady  luul  enemies) 
denominated  parsimoniousness,  and  when  she 
had  rci)Iied,  "  Unu'rateful  boy,  it  is  only  for  you 
I  save,"  ho  had  replied,  "It  is  for  me,  then, 
that  I  require  some  fresh  marmalade." 

He  liad  taken  butter,  as  well  as  that  costly 
sweetmeat,  with  his  mulHn,  on  purpose  to  vex 
his  parent,  and  had  etfected  his  object ;  and 
now  he  was  choosing  a  subject  of  conversation 
very  ill  adapted  to  give  her  jjcacc  of  mind.  The 
relations  said  to  be  established  between  her 
brother  and  Miss  Crawford  were  by  no  means 
a  matter  of  such  indifference  to  her  as  she  pro- 
fessed. In  fact,  she  had  thought  of  little  else 
from  the  first  moment  the  rumor  had  reached 
her  ears ;  but  she  had  endeavored  to  shut  her 
eyes  to  the  full  extent  of  the  danger ;  it  was 
verj-  objectionable  to  have  it  brought  before  her 
in  this  inexorable  manner,  and  she  sniffed  dis- 
approval audibly. 

"Yes,  I  know  yon  don't  like  it,"  observed 
Jedediah,  in  reference  to  this  signal ;  "  but  it 
is  time  to  look  matters  in  the  face." 

"What  would  you  have  me  do,  Jedediah?"' 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know;  slie  is  one 
of  your  own  sort,  this  girl,  and  you  ought  to  be 
able  to  stop  it  somehow.  I  only  know  this, 
that  Uncle  Jolin  is  said  to  be  getting  on  in  that 
quarter  uncommonly  fiist,  and  the  sooner  you 
set  about  putting  a  spoke  in  his  wheel  the  bet- 
ter." 

"I  shall  certainly  consider  it  my  duty," 
said  Mrs.  Newman,  slowly,  "to  hint  to  this 
young  lady  at  the  injurious  reports  that  are  in 
circulation  respecting  lier :  she  can  not  surely 
be  aware  of  the  peculiar  opinions  entertained 
by  your  unhappy  uncle." 

"  She  is  probably  aware  that  he  is  sweet  up- 
on her,  and  has  a  good  two  thousand  a  year," 
observed  the  ])ractical  Jedediah. 

"No,  Jed;  I  will  not  think  so  ill  of  any 
young  person  of  religious  principles  as  to  sup- 
pose she  is  actuated  by  sordid  motives." 

"  Bah  !"  exclaimed  Jedediali,  this  time  with 
a  most  unmistakable  B.  It  was  rude,  but  not 
altogether  inexcusable.  From  the  day  from 
which  dated  one  of  the  boy's  earliest  but 
strongest  recollections,  when  his  deceased  pa- 
rent had  been  carried  to  his  long  home  in  a 
coffin  made  out  of  an  ancient  piano-case  (some 
enemies  of  the  thrifty  widow  averred  that  it  was 
too  short  for  him,  and  that  he  had  been  decap- 
itated to  suit  its  dimensions),  up  to  the  present 
hour,  when  that  stale  marmalade  had  been  al- 
most foisted  upon  his  reluctant  palate,  he  had 
been  familiar   with   the    sordid   devices   of  at 


least  one  saint,  and  had  learned  to  suspect  them 
all.  Yet  singularly  enough,  while  mistrusting 
the  genuineness  of  the  profession  of  those  among 
whom  his  lot  was  cast,  this  young  man  liad  im- 
bibed their  prejudices,  and  though  greatly  in- 
clined to  vice,  was  as  intolerant  of  error  as  Mrs. 
Newnum  herself.  It  was  an  unspeakable  com- 
ft)rt  to  her  to  reflect,  that  although  boys  would 
be  boys,  and  you  could  not  ])Ut  old  heads  upon 
young  slioulders  (this  in  allusion  to  some  very 
Bowdlerized  edition  of  Jed's  peccadillos  which 
occasionally  reached  her  cars),  her  Jedeiliah 
was  a  young  man  of  the  most  excellent  ])rinci- 
ples.  For  the  rest,  he  was  a  very  handsome 
young  fellow,  (exce|it  for  a  certain  coarseness 
about  the  mouth,  which  it  did  not  need  a  Lav- 
ater  to  translate),  and  there  was  no  wonder  that 
his  mother  was  proud  of  him.  ^Moreover,  he 
was  a  sensible  fellow,  after  a  fashion — what 
Mr.  Carlyle  and  the  vulgar  are  both  agreed  to 
call  "  knowing" — and  she  did  not  despise  his 
blunt  but  practical  utterances. 

Nothing  more  passed  between  them  on  the  pres- 
ent occasion  ;  theirsparring — in  which  the  Jutting 
was  all  on  one  side — often  ended  in  that  man- 
ner ;  but  the  force  of  Jedediah's  observations, 
backed  as  they  were  by  Mrs.  Newman's  own  se- 
cret misgivings,  was  not  lost.  She  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  follow  his  advice  in  resjiect  to 
that  peril  so  imminently  impending  at  Grey- 
crags,  but  in  the  mean  time  she  did  not  neglect 
her  usual  precautions  in  the  smaller  matters  of 
domestic  economy.  When  her  Jed  had  lounged 
out  of  the  room  to  have  his  pi])e  in  the  stable — 
for  the  time  had  not  yet  come  when  he  should 
rule  the  house  and  take  his  narcotic  therein — 
she  locked  up  the  tea  and  sugar,  and  having 
scraped  up  the  old  marmalade  and  mixed  it 
with  the  new,  made  a  faint  mark  with  her  pen- 
cil outside  the  pot  exactly  at  its  highest  level. 
Then  she  descended  to  the  kitchen,  discovered 
that  there  were  sufficient  bones  and  debris  left 
from  past  meals  to  make  excellent  soup,  with- 
out getting  in  fresh  stock,  as  recommended  by 
that  extravagant  hussy,  the  cook;  sniffed  vio- 
lently in  the  larder  over  the  carcase  of  a  fowl, 
which  did  not  appear  to  have  so  many  legs  as 
it  ought  to  have  had.  "  ]\Ir.  Jedediah  had  had 
both  broiled  for  his  yesterday's  breakfast,''  said 
the  hussy.      "  I  only  saw  one,"  said  her  mistress. 

She  shook  her  head  when  the  kitchen-maid 
demanded  another  box  of  lucifer  matches. 

"  How  dare  you  require  so  many  lucifer 
matches  in  the  summer?"  inquired  she,  as 
though,  during  tliat  season,  the  kitchen  fire 
miglit  be  lighted  by  a  burning-glass.  "What 
is  the  use  of  my  having  that  admirable  proverb 
hung  over  the  dresser?"  and  she  pointed  to  the 
spot  upon  the  wliited  wall  where  "  VV((,';^e  not, 
ivant  not"  was  inscribed  upon  a  scroll,  not  in 
the  illegible  high  church  fiishion,  but  in  such  a 
manner  that  one  who  roasts  might  read. 

Next  she  dived  into  the  pantry  and  delivered 
to  the  astonished  foot-page — the  last  of  a  long 
but  short-lived  line  of  foot-pages — a  lecture  up- 
on the  use  and  abuse  of  plate-powder,  with  a 


42 


CAKLYON'S  YEAR. 


few  remarks  upon  the  pecuniary  penalties  that 
await  breakage  in  all  well-conducted  establish- 
ments. After  which,  ascending  noiselessly  to 
the  u])per  regions,  she  came  u])on  two  house- 
maids making  a  bod  and  giggling,  to  whom  she 
prom])tly  issued  a  coujile  of  tracts,  entitled 
"The  Crackling  of  Thorns ;  or,  How  Anna 
Thenia  and  Marion  Arthur  were  made  to  laugh 
on  the  other  side  of  their  mouths,"  with  one 
(practical)  illustration. 

After  thus  performing  the  duties  of  a  dili- 
gent mistress,  she  sat  down  at  her  desk,  with  a 
mind  relieved  of  all  lesser  cares,  and  free  to  be 
concentrated  upon  tlie  important  subject  forced 
upon  her  notice  by  Jcdediah.  Even  then  her 
habitual  prudence  and  attention  to  minute  af- 
fairs did  not  desert  her ;  instead  of  spoiling 
half  a  dozen  sheets  of  Bath  ])Ost,  as  some  i)er- 
sons  do,  who  have  a  letter  of  difficult  composi- 
tion before  them,  she  selected  some  waifs  and 
strays  of  paper,  backs  of  envelopes,  and  blank 
spaces  at  the  foot  of  bills,  and  thus  ])rocceded 
to  concoct  a  letter  on  almost  as  many  surfiices 
as  the  Sybil  inscribed  her  oracles.  "  Dear 
madam,  "it  began  ;  then  "Madam;"  then  "My 
Christian  friend  ;"  and  once — but  that  she  tore 
up  into  small  jjieces  as  soon  as  written,  and 
sniffed  so  that  she  blew  them  all  about  the 
room — "  My  dear  INIiss  Crawford." 

She  was  still  hanging  over  "  My  Christian 
Friend" — on  the  blue  lines  of  a  butcher's  bill — 
like  a  poet  in  search  of  an  impossible  rhyme, 
when  a  shrill  voice  suddenly  interrupted  lier 
with  "Please,  mum,  the  gardener's  wife  is 
a-waitin'  for  her  bonnet." 

"  You  wicked  boy,"  cried  she,  starting  to  her 
feet;  "how  dare  you  enter  tlie  room  without 
knocking  ?"  and,  with  that,  as  if  to  apply  tlie 
meneraonical  system  of  association  of  ideas,  she 
smartly  slapped  his  cheeks.  "Tell  her  to 
come  up  ;   that  is,  in  a  minute  or  two." 

The  page  retired  droojjing,  dogs'  eared.  Mrs. 
Newman  instantly  souglit  her  own  a])artnient, 
and  opening  the  door  of  its  hanging  wardrobe, 
took  from  it  a  faded  old  summer  bonnet,  look- 
ing like  an  autumn  leaf. 

"  I've  promised  it  to  the  woman,''  mused  she 
regretfully;  "and  I  sujipose  I  must  give  it 
her.  And  yet  it  looks  almost  as  good  as  new. 
I  am  sure  1  might  have  had  another  season's 
wear  out  of  it." 

Slie  gazed  at  the  yellow  bonnet-strings  which 
had  once  been  white,  with  lingering  fondness. 

"  Well,  I'll  cut  off  the  trimming,  atall  events ; 
that  is  quite  unsuited  to  a  person  in  her  station 
of  life." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  she  regarded 
the  mutilated  article  of  apparel  with  some  ap- 
proach to  resignation. 

"There,"  said  she;  "the  wires  are  all  in 
shape.  She  could  not  have  got  such  a  bonnet 
as  that,  if  it  was  new,  under  fifteen  shillings. 
Fifteen  shillings, "  she  rejieated,  very  slowly,  as 
though  she  were  reluctantly  counting  down  the 
money,  coin  by  coin.  "That  is  a  very  large 
sum  to  give  away.     I  think  I'll  tell  her  to  call 


again  some  other  time — but  then  I've  done  that 
twice  already.  IIow  weak  it  was  of  me  to 
promise  it  to  her.  How  foolishly  impulsive  I 
am." 

The  mirror  of  the  hanging  wardrobe  before 
which  she  stood  did  not  reflect  the  features 
which  are  generally  considered  indicative  of  an 
imjnilsive  character.  The  ])inchcd-np  mouth, 
the  greedy  eyes,  the  fingers  clutching  tightly  at 
the  threatened  treasure,  would  have  furnished 
a  study  for  any  painter  who  wished  to  symbol- 
ize (genteelly)  greed.  But  presently  the  thin 
lips  straightened  themselves  into  a  really  pleas- 
ant smile,  the  eyes  softened  and  even  twinkled, 
and  tlie  white  hand  carried  its  burden  of  frail 
rubbish  with  a  grace.  She  bad  thought  of  a 
plan  to  kee])  her  word,  and  yet  not  lose  her 
bonnet,  or  at  least  her  bonnet's  worth. 

"Well,  Mis.  Jones,"  exclaimed  she,  with 
cheerfulness,  as  she  entered  the  drawing-room, 
"  you  see  I  have  brought  your  bonnet." 

It  was  very  necessary  to  say  this.  For  I\Irs. 
Jones,  a  delicate  nij)ped-up-looking  woman, 
Avho  had  had  half  a  dozen  more  children  than 
was  good  for  her,  and  was  expecting  another, 
regarded  the  object  dangling  from  her  mis- 
tress's fingers  with  considerable  embarrassment. 
Could  that  wretched,  balf-stri])ped  thing  be  the 
long-promised  gift  which  she  had  already  ap- 
])lied  for  to  its  unwilling  donor  twice  in  vain  ? 
It  was  no  more  a  bonnet  than  a  skeleton  is  a 
man  ! 

But  all  of  us  are  not  in  a  condition  of  life  to 
express  our  genuine  sentiments :  it  is  not  so 
easy  to  be  honest  and  straightforward  as  gen- 
tlemen of  "  culture"  and  in(le])eudent  means, 
who  write  philosopliic  leaders  in  reviews  and 
newspaiters,  are  apt  to  imagine.  People  who 
live  by  hard  work,  and  have  little  ones  to 
support,  can  not  afford  to  lose  their  places; 
hut  must  be  humble  and  obedient  to  their 
masters  (.and  mistresses)  in  a  sense  beyond 
tliat  which  (I  hope)  the  Church  Catechism  con- 
templates. Thus,  Mrs.  Jones,  the  gardener's 
wife,  bethinking  herself  of  those  near  and  dear 
to  her,  resisted  the  temptation  of  saying, 
"Where  is  the  bonnet?"  and  dropped  a  cour- 
tesy before  its  siniulacmm.  Perhajis  the  ex- 
])ression  of  her  mistress's  foce,  beaming  with 
conscious  benevolence,  persuaded  her  for  the 
moment  that  the  thing  was  really  of  some  val- 
ue, and  induced  her  to  murmur,  "  Thank  ye, 
mum." 

"I  thought  you  would  be  pleased,  Mrs. 
Jones,"  returned  the  lady,  still  maintaining  her 
hold  upon  the  article  in  question.  "It  will 
make  a  very  nice  bonnet  after  a  little  looking 
to." 

Whatever  this  mysterious  process  of  observa- 
tion might  have  implied,  the  very  mention  of  it 
seemed  to  enhance  the  value  of  that  with  which 
Mrs.  NcAvman  was  about  to  part.  "Now 
mind,"  she  continued,  "  I  don't  wish  to  make 
a  bargain  witli  you,  ]\Irs.  Jones,  for  this  is  a  free 
gift.  A  promise  is  a  promise,  and  you  shall 
have  it  whether  or  no." 


CARLTON'S  YEAR, 


43 


Here  the  thing  changed  hands,  and  its  lato 
proprietress  uttered  such  a  sigh  as  only  escapes 
from  one  who  lias  resisted  a  great  tciuptatiuu. 
"It's  your  wedding-day,  is  it  not,  Mrs.  dones  ?"' 

"Yes,  mum,  it  be;  it  is  twenty  year  come 
this  very  day  that  me  and  my  husband  have 
livL'd  together,  and  a  many  crosses  we  have  had, 
and  its  been  a  hard  job  all  along  to  make  botli 
ends  meet,  but  we  do  make  'em,  thank  God!" 

•'Very  good,  and  very  right;  it's  a  pleasure 
to  hear  you  say  so,  Mrs.  Jones  ,  and  now,  I  dare 
say,  you  have  a  nice  little  dinner  to-day — a  leg 
of  pork,  or  a  bit  of  beef,  perhaps — about  one 
o'clock." 

'•Yes,  ma'am,  thank  you,  mum,  we  'aue  got 
a  leg  of  mutton,  although  it  is  not  every  day  as 
we  sees  even  bacon,  far  less  butcher's  meat — " 

"Just  so,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Newman,  with  one 
of  her  sweet  smiles;  "and  you  will  have  no 
stint  of  potatoes,  for  your  husband  has  permis- 
sion to  take  as  many  as  he  pleases  for  his  own 
use  out  of  tlie  garden." 

"  Yes,  mum ;  that  was  considered  in  his 
wages." 

But  Mrs.  Newman  went  on  smiling  as  though 
no  such  remark  had  been  interpolated. 

"  Now,  what  I  was  going  to  say,  Mrs.  Jones, 
was,  that  if  you  find  the  leg  of  mutton  more  than 
you  require,  one  o'clock  being  my  luncheon  hour, 
if  you  choose  to  send  a  nice  hot  slice,  with  a 
few  potatoes,  between  two  plates — mind,  I  say 
if  you  have  lots  to  spare,  and  I  don't  want  to 
put  it  as  any  return  for  the  bonnet  (which,  in- 
deed, is  ridiculous,  for  that  was  a  very  costly 
article) — I  shall  be  very  much  obliged  to  you —  I 
there." 

And  Mrs.  Newman  smiled  and  nodded,  and* 
pointed  towarc^  the  door,  as  though  to  preclude 
all  expressions  of  gratitude  upon  the  part  of  the 
gardener's  wife,  and  really  looked  so  lady-like 
and  pleasant,  that  poor  ^Irs.  Jones  retired  like 
ohe  in  a  dream,  doubtful  whether  she  could 
have  heard  aright.  But  before  she  reached  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs,  her  doubts  were  resolved, 
for  a  sweet  voice  called  softly  to  her  over  the 
bannisters — 

"Xet  the  potatoes  be  fried,  Mrs.  Jones,  if  it 
is  all  the  same  to  you  ;  and  don't  trouble  your- 
self about  the  pepper  and  salt,  for  I  don't  wish 
to  put  you  to  expenses."  j 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AGNES    AND    SISTER    MEG. 

Doubtless  it  was  with  the  elastic  vigor  that 
characterizes  the  acts  of  most  of  us  when  we 
have  done  a  good  stroke  of  business  in  whatever 
walk  of  life,  that  ISIrs.  Newman  reverted  to  her 
epistolary  labors,  after  having  secured  for  her- 
self a  gratuitous  luncheon.  Yet  none  of  her 
compositions  seemed  to  give  her  satisfaction. 
But  for  her  forethought  in  using  scraps  of  paper 
for  her  rough  draughts,  she  might  have  wasbed 
two-penny  worth  of  Bath  note. 


"I  will  go  and  see  the  girl  myself,"  mur- 
mured she,  impatiently  ;  "  that  will  be  better 
tluin  writing." 

!Slie  would  have  started  on  the  instant,  for 
Mrs.  Newman  was  not  a  person  to  let  the  grass 
grow  under  her  feet  when  once  a  resolution  was 
formed  ;  but  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  sac- 
rifice, or,  at  all  events,  expose  to  possible  mis- 
carriage and  loss,  tliat  excellent  slice  of  mutton. 
And  here  she  made  a  mistake.  It  is  providen- 
tially arranged  that  very  prudent  and  saving 
persons  sliall  invariably,  at  one  time  or  another, 
miss  their  mackerel,  through  an  unwillingness 
to  expose  their  sprat  to  possible  loss ;  in  their 
exclusive  care  of  the  pence  the  pounds  occa- 
sionally take  to  themselves  wings ;  tlieir  pin  a 
day  secures  to  them  tlicir  groat  a  year,  but  in 
picking  it  up  they  sometimes  neglect  more  im- 
portant sources  of  income.  Thus,  in  waiting 
for  her  gratuitous  lunch,  ]Mrs.  Newman  missed 
her  ojjportunity  of  putting  a  stop  to  that  conver- 
sation between  her  brother  and  Agnes  Crawford, 
which  we  have  had  the  privilege  of  overhearing. 
If  she  had  started  on  her  mission  without  wait- 
ing for  that  slice  of  mutton,  she  might  (to  use 
a  culinary  metaphor  while  sjieaking  of  a  kindred 
subject)  have  cooked  somebody's  goose  pretty 
completely.  Imagine  the  effect  of  her  apj)ear- 
ance  upon  that  sunny  lawn  ;  its  abrupt  interrup- 
tion of  the  (efe-a-tcte ;  how  she  would  have 
frightened  the  horse,  and  worried  the  man,  that 
(would  have  liked  to  have)  kissed  the  maiden 
all  forlorn,  that  lived  in  the  house  called  Grey- 
crags  ! 

As  it  was,  Mrs.  Newman  did  not  start  for 
that  retired  mansion  until  2.30  p.  m.  She  ar- 
rived in  her  basket  pony-carriage,  driven  by  the 
small  foot-page  :  like  a  baleful  fairy,  who, 
though  drawn  by  fiery  dragons,  guided  by  a  du- 
odecimo fiend,  reaches  the  house  of  the  young 
princess  the  day  after  her  coming-of-age,  when 
it  is  vain  to  wish  her  wall-eyed  or  web-footed. 
But,  out  of  elfland,  it  is  never  too  late  to  do 
mischief. 

Agnes  had  a  foreboding  that  evil  was  impend- 
ing when  Cubra  hissed  through  the  key-hole, 
"  Missis  Newman  come,  and  wish  to  see  you 
very  partickler;"  nor  did  her  instinct  deceive 
her. 

Nothing  could  be  sweeter  than  the  smile 
with  which  her  guest  arose  as  she  entered  the 
drawing-room,  and  greeted  her  as  a  mother 
might  greet  a  daughter.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  Mrs.  Newman  had  visited  Greycrags  since 
the  Crawfords  had  resided  there,  and  she  had  a 
great  deal  to  say  about  the  improvements  that 
had  been  eflfected  in  the  mean  time.  At  last 
she  said — 

"  What  a  charming  lawn  you  have,  my  dear 
Miss  Crawford  ;  but  what  a  ]nty  if  is  that  you 
allow  horses  upon  it,  for  surely  I  see  hoof- 
marks  ?" 

["Ah,"  thought  the  speaker,  "it's  all  true. 
The  hussy  blushes.  It's  quite  as  well  I  acted 
upon  dear  Jed's  suggestions."] 

"Yes,  those   are  Red  Berild's  hoof-marks; 


44: 


CARLYON'S  TEAR. 


the  horse  your  brother  rode  when  he  saved  my 
cousin  and  me  upon  the  sands.  I  wished  to 
take  his  ])ortriiit." 

"My  briithei's  ])ortrait?" 

"No,  iiuulaiii ;  lied  Berild's."  They  were 
looking;  steadily  in  one  another's  faces.  Agnes 
had  (luitc  recovered  herself.  Mrs.  Newman  felt 
that  no  easy  task  was  awaiting  her. 

"It  is  all  the  same,"  said  she,  "whether  it 
was  the  horse  or  the  rider.  I  am  an  old  woman 
— that  is,  comparatively  speaking — and  you, 
Miss  Crawford,  are  a  very  young  one.  I  am 
quite  sure  that  you  are  unaware  of  the  conse- 
quences-7- 1  mean  of  the  construction  wliich 
must  needs  be  j)ut,  nay,  which  of  late  has  been 
put  ui)on  my  brother's  visits  to  this  house.  In 
your  exceeding  innocence — "  here  Mrs.  New- 
man placed  a  hand  with  a  darned  glove  on  it 
upon  her  young  friend's  shoulder,  and  her  voice 
became  even  tenderer  and  more  winning — "and 
in  your  happy  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  tlie 
world,  you  have  unwittingly  given  this  wicked 
creature — " 

"  The  horse,  madam  ?" 

"  Miss  Crawford,  I  am  astonished  at  you. 
This  levity  is  most  unlooked-for,  most  unbecom- 
ing. I  say  that  you  have  unwittingly— as  I 
hope,  unwillingly — given  this  wicked  and  aban- 
doned man  encouragement.  I  am  obliged  to 
speak  plainly." 

"  So  it  seems,  Mrs.  Newman,  since  yoti  call 
yoitr  ow'n  brother  by  such  names."  She  drew 
herself  slowly  away,  so  that  her  guest's  hand, 
reluctantly  slipi)ing,  hung  by  the  darned  finger 
tips  for  a  second,  and  then  fell. 

"And  is  it  not  the  truth.  Miss  Crawford? 
Can  yon  pretend  to  be  ignorant  that  John  Car- 
lyon  is  an  infidel  ?  And  is  not  that  to  be  wicked 
and  abandoned  ?" 

"  We  are  all  wicked,  madam  ;  but  wc  can  not 
tell  whom  God  has  abandoned." 

"And  I  thought  this  was  a  Christian  wo- 
man !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Newman,  holding  up 
her  hands.  "How  we  are  deceived  in  this 
world." 

"Yes,  madam,"  returned  Agnes,  coldly,  "  it 
is  only  in  the  next  world  that  a  true  judgment 
will  be  arrived  at,  and  even  then  we  shall  not 
be  the  judges." 

If  Mr.  Richard  Crawford  had  been  occupying 
his  usual  post  (which  he  was  not  half  way  up 
the  hill,  or  even  higher,  he  could  not  have  failed 
to  hear  Mrs.  Newman  sniff;  it  was  like  a  hip- 
popotamus who  had  just  emerged  from  under 
water. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  the  infidel  is  only  to  be 
jiitied,  young  lady,"  observed  she,  witli  what, 
had  she  been  an  irreligious  person,  would  cer- 
tainly have  been  termed  a  sneer.  "Now  jiity, 
we  all  know,  is  akin  to  love." 

"  Mrs.  Newman !" 

"  Yes ;  I  can  read  it  in  your  face.  You  love 
this  man.  You  would  marry  him  if  he  asked 
you  to  do  so." 

"  That  is  false,  madam,  and  I  think  you  know 
it." 


Notwithstanding  this  unpleasant  imputation, 
Mrs.  Newman  was  pleased.  The  girl  was  on 
her  jtart  evidently  sjjcaking  truth.  Ko  irre- 
trievable mischief  had  as  yet  been  done.  If  he 
had  jiroposed,  she  had  not  accepted  him,  al- 
though perhaps  she  might  not  have  rejected 
him. 

"T  would  never  marry  any  man,"  she  went 
on,  "  with  the  opinions  you  have,  however  un- 
charitably, described." 

"But  you  are  not  without  hope  that  his  ojtin- 
ions  may  change,"  observed  Mrs.  Newman, 
quickly.  "You  believe  in  this  man's  possible 
conversion.  Perhaps  you  believe  that  you  your- 
self may  be  the  happy  instrument.  You  do;  I 
see  you  do." 

"If  you  have  no  other  purpose  in  coming  here 
than  to  insult  me  thus,  Mrs.  Newman,"  re- 
turned Agnes,  trembling,  "I  will  retire."  Her 
courage,  so  liigli  when  it  was  he  who  was  at- 
tacked, sank  before  these  relentless  blows  aimed 
at  herself  alone. 

"  Not  before  I  have  told  you  the  whole  truth," 
exclaimed  the  other,  stcpjnng  swiftly  toward 
her,  and  grasping  her  by  the  wrist.  "Your 
conscience  whispers  that  you  are  looking  beyond 
the  convert  for  the  lover.  If  you  have  hitherto 
deceived  yourself,  you  can  do  so  no  longer  now, 
for  I  have  undeceived  you." 

"And  you  do  not  wish  your  brother  to  be 
converted  ?" 

"By  you,  no,"  answered  Mrs.  Newman, 
fiercely;  "that  is,"  added  she,  recollecting  her- 
self, "because  such  a  thing  is  out  of  your  power ; 
you  do  not  know  how  strong  he  is — this  man. 
It  is  you  who  would  be  perverted  by  him.  Two 
•precious  souls  lost  in  the  endeavor  to  save  one." 

"He  did  not  think  of  his  own  life  when 
he  spurred  across  the  whirling  river  to  res- 
cue mine,"  murmured  Agnes,  as  though  to  her- 
self. 

"A  reckless  man  will  do  any  thing  for  a 
pretty  face,  girl." 

"You  hurt  my  wrist,  madam  ;  please  to  let 
me  go.  A  reckless  man !  A  brave  and  noble 
man,  I  say,  and  one  to  be  of  the  same  blood  with 
whom  should  make  you  proud." 

"  Tho.se  are  strong  words,  young  lady,  and 
scarcely  modest  ones.  If  I  must  needs  be  proud 
of  being  this  man's  sister,  how  fine  a  thing  it 
would  be  to  be  his  wife.  And  it  ivou/d  be  a  fine 
thing  to  some  people." 

U])  till  now,  Mrs.  Newman  had  preserved  the 
habitual  smile  and  gentle  tones  that  had  stood 
her  in  such  good  stead  through  years  of  vulgar 
and  penurious  greed,  but  at  tliese  words  her  look 
and  manner  became  those  of  a  shrew, 

"For  a  girl,  for  instance,"  she  went  on, 
"without  money,  without  family — springing,  in 
fact,  from  no  one  knows  whom  or  whence,  it 
doubtless  would  be  a  great  matter  to  secure 
John  Carlyon  for  a  husband  ;  that  is  to  say,  if 
she  bad  no  religious  principles  whatever,  and 
was  only  bent  upon  attaining  a  position  f  n-  her- 
self in  this  world.  But  for  you,  Miss  Crawford, 
no  matter  what  the  advantage  you  might  gain 


CARLTON'S  YEAR. 


45 


by  such  a  marriage,  I  will  take  leave  to  tell 
you — " 

"  Nothing  more,  madam,"  interposed  Agnes, 
with  dignity,  at  the  same  time  ringing  the  bell 
sharplv  for  licr  visitor's  carriage.  "  I  will  not 
listen  to  anotlier  word.  You  have  said  enough 
already,  tar  more  t'lan  any  gentlewoman  ought 
to  say.  Any  honor  to  be  gained  by  alliance 
with  one  of  your  family  would  indeed  be  dearly 
purchased  if  it  entailed  intinu^cy  with  such  as 
you." 

IVrrs.  Newman  courtesied  deeply  with  her  cus- 
tomary grace. 

"  Thank  you,  ]\Ii«s  Crawford,"  said  she.  "I 
have  also  to  be  grateful  to  you — "  here  the  serv- 
ant entered  and  received  his  orders,  retiring, 
doubtless,  with  the  impression  that  the  two  la- 
dies were  most  uncommonly  polite  to  one  anotlier 
— "for  having  exhibited  to  me,  under  the  guise 
of  a  Christian  young  person,  an  unprincipled 
girl,  and  a  designing  fortune-hunter." 

''  She  never  can  sec  him  again  after  t/iaf,'' 
murmured  Mrs.  Newman,  as,  leaning  back  in 
her  pony-carriage,  she  thought  over  that  heavy 
chain-shot  delivered  at  parting.  "  It  was  .abso- 
lutely necessary  that  I  should  not  mince  mat- 
ters ;  and  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  think  that  I 
have  acted  for  the  girl's  own  good!" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

SEXTENCE    OF    D^ATH. 

It  was  on  the  morning  after  the  interview 
between  ISIrs.  Newman  and  Agnes  that  Mr. 
Carstairs,  calling,  as  he  often  did,  at  Woodlees, 
was,  for  the  first  time,  so  fortunate  as  to  find  its 
proprietor  at  home. 

"  Mr.  John  is  in  to-day,  sir,"  said  old  Robin, 
whose  eye-twinkling  upon  this  subject  had  be- 
come chronic  ;  "he  really  is,  for  once." 

"Oh,"  ejaculated  the  doctor,  by  no  means 
with  satisfaction,  but  rather  like  one  who,  hav- 
ing received  certain  information  that  his  dentist 
is  out  of  town,  has  gone  to  consult  him  respecting 
a  troublesome  tooth,  and  finds  him  in.  "Not 
gone  to  Greycrags  this  morning,  then,  eh, 
Robin  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  but  he's  got  a  letter  from  the  young 
lady.  Leastways,  one  was  brought  to  him  five 
minutes  ago,  and  if  you  had  seen  his  face  when 
he  took  it  into  his  h.and — oh,  yes,  we  was  right 
about  that,  bless  you.  '  There  was  no  answer,' 
said  the  man  as  brought  it  over.  Why,  of 
course  not ;  what's  the  need  of  answering  by 
letter  when  my  gentleman  rides  over  every  mor- 
tal day  ?     Perhaps  he's  put  off  a  bit,  that's  all." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Carstairs,  musing. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  sir,"  went  on  the  gar- 
rulous old  man,  "  it  will  be  a  sore  day  for  Miss 
Meg  as  was  when  the  young  squire  marries. 
She  counted  upon  Woodlees  for  Master  Jede- 
diah,  bless  you.  But  it's  better  as  it  is,  to  my 
thinking  ;  for  Miss  Agnes,  she'll  win  Mr.  .John 
to  what's  right,  to  the  path  as  my  old  master 


walked  in  all  the  days  of  his  life — a  good  man, 
Mr.  Carstairs,  if  ever  there  was  one — and  that  is 
all  as  is  really  wanting.  If  he  had  but  piety 
and  propriety,  as  our  gardener  says  (and  a  re- 
markable long  head  has  gardener),  he  would  be 
perfect;  and  though  I  tiiink  it  my  duty  not  to 
let  him  know  it,  this  I  will  saj-,  never  had  serv- 
ants a  better  master,  or  a  kinder,  than  Mr.  John. 
Whereas,  you  know.  Miss  Meg  as  was,  she  was 
always  near — very  pious  and  very  proper,  but 
most  audacious  near.  Why,  I  remember,  as  if 
it  was  yesterday,  when  our  Susan  (she  as  was 
married  to  him  as  kep'  the  Disney  Arms,  and  a 
sad  drunkard  lie  was,  but  they're  both  gone  now) 
went  out  to  wasli  some  chitterlings  in  the  mill- 
race  yonder  and  fell  in.  That  was  just  after 
missis  died,  and  jNIiss  Meg  she  managed  the 
house,  and  pretty  nigh  starved  us  for  a  matter 
of  six  months  ;  we  had  to  eat  the  inncrds  of 
every  thing,  such  as  we  had  been  used  to  throw 
away  before  her  time,  and  she  set  us  an  exam- 
ple by  liaving  chitterlings  for  breakfast ;  nasty, 
stinking  things  as  ever  you  smelt.  Well,  Susan 
fell  in,  and  the  news  came  to  the  kitchen  just 
as  I  was  bringing  in  the  urn,  and  I  told  Miss 
Meg  at  the  breakfast  table.  'Ma'am,'  sjiys  I, 
'  while  cleaning  them  inncrds  Susan  Grives 
have  tumbled  into  the  mill-race.'  '  W/wi-e  are 
the  innerds?^  cried  Miss  Meg.  I  never  shall 
forget  it,  never.  Without  even  asking  whether 
the  girl  were  drowned  or  not,  '  W/icre  are  the 
innerds  ?'  Oh,  yes,  I  do  hope  that  I\Iiss  Meg  as 
was  Avill  not  be  mistress  here  in  my  time." 

"Well,  that's  not  very  likely,  Robin,  is  it?" 
inquired  the  doctor,  looking  earnestly  in  the  old 
man's  face.  "You  surely  do  not  expect  at  your 
age  to  outlive  your  master.'' 

"  At  7>ii/  age,"  grumbled  Robin  ;  "  well,  I'm 
sure,  one  would  think  I  was  Metliusclah.  And 
as  to  that,  the  young  are  t.aken,  and  the  old  ones 
left,  oftentimes." 

"  Very  true,  Robin,"  answered  Mr.  Carstairs, 
nodding.  "And  now  let  me  see  Mr.  John.  I 
know  my  way,  and  needn't  trouble  you  to  come 
up  stairs." 

"Ah,  but  he  ain't  in  the  turret-room,"  ejac- 
ulated the  other,  still  in  rather  a  dissatisfied 
tone,  for  Robin  was  tender  as  a  belle  of  eight- 
and-twenty  upon  the  point  of  age,  "  he's  in  the 
master's  room.  He  happened  to  be  in  the  hall 
when  the  letter  came,  and  just  as  though  he 
couldn't  wait  for  a  minute,  he  shut  hisself  in 
there  to  read  it,  .and  ain't  been  out  since  ;  I 
dfire  say  he's  a  getting  it  by  heart,"  chuckled 
the  old  man.  "  You  must  knock  louder  than 
that,  bless  ye — " 

But  Mr.  Carstairs,  getting  no  reply  to  his 
summons,  and  finding  the  door  made  fast, 
stooped  down  and  looked  tlirough  the  keyhole. 
"Fetch  some  cold  water,"  cried  he;  "quick, 
quick  !"  and  while  uttering  the  words,  the  agile 
little  man  flew  out  at  the  garden  door,  and  in 
at  the  window  of  the  cedar  chamber  (standing 
open  as  usual  to  get  what  sunshine  it  could)  like 
a  bird.  There  was,  indeed,  not  a  moment  to 
spare.     John  Carlyon  lay  upon  the  floor,  still 


4G 


CAKLVUN'S  YEAK. 


breatliinp  stertorously,  ])ut  with  a  face  like  that 
of  a  strant;lod  man.  His  head  Iiad  fortunately 
been  caupht  by  the  sofa  cusliion,  and  remained 
hit,'lier  ttian  the  rest  of  his  body.  His  band 
still  clntciied  an  ojjen  lettei*,  tiie  receipt  of 
whicli  had  doubtless  caused  the  calamity  l)y 
some  emotional  sliock,  and  a  small  Itook — it 
looked  like  a  Testament — lay  on  the  floor  by  his 
side.  The  doctor's  (luick  eye  took  in  all  these 
things  at  a  single  glance,  and  sooner  than  the 
action  could  lie  described  in  words,  he  liad  freed 
Carlyon's  throat  from  neckcloth  and  collar,  and 
bared  his  arm.  Then,  throwing  oj)en  the  door 
to  get  a  free  current  of  air,  as  well  as  to  admit 
Robin,  he  began  to  use  the  lancet.  Would  the 
blood  never  flow?  Was  he  dead — this  strong 
man,  in  the  full  vigor  of  his  prime  ?  No  ;  very 
slowly,  drop  by  drop,  but  presently  in  a  crimson 
tide,  came  the  life  stream  ;  while  old  Robin 
stood  by,  dazed  with  teiTor,  and  sprinkling  the 
cold  water  as  often  on  the  floor  as  ujjon  his 
young  master's  forehead. 

"Is  it  a  fit,  doctor?"  inquired  he,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

"No,  the  heat  of  the  weather,  that's  all,"  re- 
sponded Mr.  Carstairs,  hastily.  "See,  he  is 
getting  better  now." 

There  was  a  deep  drawn  respiration,  and  the 
large  eyes  drowsily  opened  and  closed.  "  You 
had  better  go  away,  Robin  ;  he  is  coming  to  liim- 
self,  and  perhaps  would  not  like  to  know  that  you 
had  seen  him  in  this  state.  Say  nothing  to  any 
one  of  what  has  happened.     Hush!  go,  go." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,  I  understand,"  answered  the 
old  man,  moving  reluctantly  away.  "  It  is  not 
for  me  to  tittle-tattle  about  my  master's  affairs." 
Then,  as  the  door  was  pushed  hastily  bcliind 
him,  he  added,  "  But  I  knows  a  fit  from  a  faint, 
I  reckon.  God  forbid  that  Miss  Meg  as  was 
should  be  mistress  liere  in  m^  time,  as  I  M'as  just 
sapng ;  yet  many's  the  true  word  spoken  in  jest. 
And  he  did  look  mortal  bad,  surely." 

"What  is  the  matter?''  asked  Carlyon,  sit- 
ting up,  and  passing  his  hand  wearily  across  his 
forehead.      "  Have  I  been  ill,  doctor?" 

"  Yes,  my  friend,  very  ill ;  but  you  are  get- 
ting over  it  now.  Let  me  help  you  on  to  the 
sofa ;  there." 

"The  letter  !  where  is  it  ?"  inquired  Carlyon, 
feebly. 

"It  is  here,"  said  the  other,  returning  it  to 
him,  folded  up. 

"You  have  read  it,  doctor?" 

"Yes;  I  could  not  help  reading  it — that  is, 
seeing  that  one  word." 

"Ay." 

The  voice  that  was  wont  to  be  so  strong  and 
cheery  sounded  faint  and  hollow  like  the  last 
boom  of  a  funeral  bell. 

"  Only  one  word,  doctor,  yet  with  a  world  of 
meaning  in  it.  That  '  No,'  means  for  me  No 
ha])piness.  No  hope.  I  wish  you  had  not  come 
and  saved  my  life.  "Wliat  years  of  wretchedness 
may  be  before  me  ere  I  gain  the  shelter  of  the 
grave!" 

"  No,  Carlyon,"  returned  the  doctor,  gravely. 


"you  have  at  least  not  that  to  fear.  I'ou  will 
never  be  a  long-lived  man." 

"  How  so  ?"  in(iuired  theotl^er,  incredulously. 
"  I  should  be  glad  to  be  able  to  believe  you  ; 
for  somehow,"  glancing  up  at  the  strange  weap- 
ons upon  the  wall,  "  I  could  never  bring  myself 
to  hasten  matters — to  desert  my  post  here,  albeit 
I  have  nothing  to  guard,  nothing  to  protect — " 

Carlyon  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  butturned 
round  with  his  face  to  the  wall. 

"  That  letter  was  from  Miss  Crawford,  was  it 
not?"  said  the  doctor,  very  tenderly:  "and  its 
meaning  is  that  she  has  refused  you.  I  am  dee])ly 
sorry,  old  friend,  that  you  have  been  caused  this 
pain,  and  I  reproach  myself  because  it  was  in  my 
power  to  avert  it." 

"  In  yours?" 

"Yes.  If  I  had  done  my  duty,  I  should 
have  told  you  something  weeks  ago  which  would 
have  spared  you  much  of  this.  Can  you  bear  to 
hear  it  now?" 

"  I  can  bear  any  thing,"  murmured  Carlyon, 
wearily,  "the  worst  that  can  befall  has  hajipened 
to  me  already.  She  is  not  like  other  girls ; 
when  she  says  No,  she  means  it." 

The  despairing  words  had  no  such  hopeless 
ring  but  that  the  other  knew  an  answer  was 
expected  with  some  comfort  in  it.  Yet  none 
was  given. 

"  Carlyon,"  said  he,  after  a  long  silence,  "  if 
Agnes  Crawford  had  written,  '  Yes,'  instead  of 
'  No,' still,  knowing  what  I  know,  learning  what 
it  would  have  been  my  duty  to  tell  her,  she 
would  not  have  married  you.  And  you,  if  you 
had  known,  you  would  not  have  asked  her  to  be- 
come your  wife." 

"  Would  I  not  ?"  murmured  Carlyon,  bitterly. 
"Your  secret  must  indeed  then  be  a  terrible 
one.  Perhaps  I  have  madness  in  my  blood. 
I  sometimes  think  I  have." 

"No.  It  is  not  terrible  —  at  least,  it  need 
not  be  so — but  only  sad.  Had  it  been  what  you 
hint  at,  I  should  have  known  it  years  ago,  but 
this  I  only  learned  a  few  weeks  back — on  the  day 
when  you  saved  Miss  Crawford's  life  upon  the 
sands." 

"I  wish  I  had  been  drowned  in  saving  it."' 

"  You  were  very  nearly  drowned,  Carlyon. 
It  was  only  j-our  fainting  under  water  that  saved 
you.  Your  case,  I  saw  at  once,  was  different 
from  the  other  two ;  and  when  you  lay  insen- 
sible at  my  house,  I  found  out  this — you  have 
heart  disease,  John  Carlyon.  You  nearly  died 
to-ilay  ;  you  may  die  to-morrow  if  any  thing 
should  cause  you  the  least  excitement.  Your 
life  is  not  worth  six  months'  purchase.  I  do  not 
think  it  possible  that  you  will  live  beyond  a 
year."  There  was  a  solemn  pause,  during  which 
1  the  lightest  sound  was  heard  ;  a  butterfly  brush- 
ed against  the  open  window ;  a  bee  buried  in 
some  fragrant  flower  beneath  its  sill,  emitted  a 
muffled  hum ;  far  ofl'  on  the  other  side  of  the 
high  garden-wall,  the  mill-race  roared ;  the 
rooks  cawed  sleepily  from  the  elm  tops  in  the 
;  park. 

"You  remember,  upon  the  day  I  mention," 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


47 


continued  the  doctor,  "that  I  began  to  speak 
upon  religious  matters.  Doubtless  it  seemed 
impertinent  to  you  that  I  did  so  ;  but  you  know 
the  reason  now.  I  thought — do  not  let  us  ar- 
gue any  more,  my  friend — I  thought  it  my 
duty  to  do  so,  and  I  think  so  now  Science  had 
passed  your  sentence  of  death,  and  it  was  surely 
meet  that  religion  should  comfort  you.  I  saw 
that  I  was  unfit  for  such  a  task,  and  yet  I  wish- 
ed to  be  of  some  service  to  the  son  of  your 
father.  There,  I  will  not  speak  of  him  again, 
since  it  pains  you.  But  I  have  known  you 
from  a  child,  my  friend,  and  I  knew  your  dear 
mother,  who  gazes  upon  you  from  yonder  pict- 
ure with  the  same  love  and  with  the  same  fear 
(I  did  not  understand  it  then,  but  I  do  now) 
with  which  I  have  seen  her  gaze  upon  her  dar- 
ling boy  a  hundred  times." 

"You  understand  it  now?"  said  Carlyou, 
bitterly  ;   "  oh,  no." 

"I  think  I  do,"  returned  Jlr.  Carstairs,  qui- 
etly.     , 

Still  keeping  his  face  averted,  Carlyon  held 
out  his  hand,  which  the  other  took  tenderly 
within  his  own. 

"  And  why  did  you  not  tell  me  this — I  mean 
about  my  heart — before,  doctor?" 

"Partly,  lest  the  shock  might   hurt  you  at 
that    time,   which,  from   something    that   you 
yourself  let  fall,  I  thought  it  would  ;  partly  be- 
cause I  was  a  coward,  and  loth  to  be  the  bear- 
er  of  such   news ;  but    principall}-,  because   I 
thought  I  saw  in  Miss  Agnes  one  who  would 
show  you  the  road  to  heaven  far  better  than  I.  | 
I  knew,  of  course,  after  what  had  happened, 
that  you  two  must  needs  become  intimate,  but ' 
I  did  not  look  forward  to  your — to  this  sad  end  | 
of  it   all.     Even   that,  however,  lies   in   some  i 
measure  at  my  door.     I   did  all  for  the  best, 
and  nothing  has  turned  out  as  I  would  have 
had  it." 

' '  Don't  fret,  my  friend ;  don't  reproach  your- 
self, you  good  soul,"  said  Carlyon,  turning 
round  and  smiling  upon  the  doctor,  who  stood 
dejected  by  his  side.  "It  was  not  certainly 
your  fault  that  I  shut  my  eyes  to  the  gulf  that 
lay  between  me  and  Agnes.  I  am  punished  for 
my  folly,  that  is  all." 

"  It  was  I,  however,"  pursued  the  doctor, 
mournfully,  "  who  gave  you  at  least  one  oppor- 
tunity which  has  doubtless  worked  with  others 
to  this  sad  end.  I  knew  that  that  hare-brain- 
ed cousin  of  hers  would  be  jealous  of  you.  He 
suspects  every  body.  I  believe  he  is  jealous  of 
me,  the  self-willed  idiot! — and  so,  when  we 
were  at  Greycrags  that  night,  I  kept  him  to 
myself,  solely  that  Miss  Agnes  might  have  some 
serious  talk  with  you.  I  was  an  ass  not  to 
for.esec  what  sort  of  talk  it  would  be.  I  would 
have  told  her  the  whole  trutli,  but  that  tliat 
would  have  been  the  betrayal  of  a  professional 
secret.  Now,  if  I  had  been  a  parson  I  should 
have  done  so  for  the  good  of  your  soul." 

"  Lost !  lost !  forever  lost !"  murmured  Car- 
lyon. 

"Xo,  no,  my  friend,  not  lost,"  returned  the 


[  doctor,  kindly.  "It  is  never  too  late  to— en- 
tertain more  correct  views  upon  religious  mat- 
ters." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  man  ?"  ex- 
claimed Carlyon,  fiercely  "I  was  not  think- 
ing of  my  '  miserable  soul,"  as  you  call  it." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  it," returned  the  doctor, 
simply. 

"  And  I'm  not  going  to  join  your  fire  in- 
surance society,"  added  the  otiier,  scornfully. 
"  The  premium  would,  under  the  circumstances, 
be  j)robably  enormous." 

"  I  have  said  wliat  I  thought  it  was  my  duty 
as  a  Christian  man  to  say,"  said  Mr.  Carstairs, 
reddening,  "  and  now  I  am  here  in  my  jjrofes- 
sional  capacity  only.  Can  I  do  any  thing  more 
for  you,  Mr.  Carlyon  ?" 

"Yes.  That  instrument  which  I  sec  peep 
ing  out  of  your  pocket  is  the  stethescope,  is  it 
not  ?     Please  to  use  it  once  more." 

"  I  have  told  you  what  its  answer  will  be," 
said  the  doctor,  hesitating. 

"  Nevertheless,"  replied  the  other,  smiling, 
"I  wish  to  make  'sicker,' as  Kirkpatrick  said 
when  he  drove  his  dirk  into  the  Red  Comyn." 
lie  opened  his  waistcoat  himself,  and  watch- 
ed Mr.  Carstairs  steadily  as  he  applied  the  in- 
strument. 

"  When  I  was  on  the  grand  jury  at  Lancas- 
ter last  year,  doctor,  I  saw  a  sad  scene.  A 
mother  waiting  for  the  verdict  upon  her  son, 
who  was  being  tried  for  murder,  and  had  been 
caught  red-handed  in  the  very  act.  I  am  glad 
to  think  that  when  you  pronounce  luy  doom 
tliero  will  be  none  to  lament  for  mc,  not  one. 
Come,  doctor,  what  is  it?  I  know  j-ou  are  a 
wise  man,  who  looks  upon  the  biiglit  side  of 
things,  and  yet  has  the  knack  of  telling  the 
truth.  You  are  putting  your  black  cap  on,  I 
see.     The  sentence  is  death,  is  it  ?" 

The  kind-hearted  doctor  nodded.  Perhaps 
he  did  not  like  to  trust  himself  to  speak. 

"Good.  And  the  stethescope  never  de- 
ceives ?" 

"  Never,"  returned  Mr.  Carstairs,  firmly,  and 
with  some  approach  to  indignation.  "  I  will 
stake  my  professional  reputation  upon  what  I 
have  stated  with  respect  to  your  ease." 

Carlyon  smiled  in  his  old,  pleasant  fashion. 
"I    would  not  damage  your  credit,   doctor, 
by  overliving  my  year,  for  all  the  world.     And 
I  may  die  in  the  mean  time,  of  course  ?" 

"At  any  moment.  To-day — to-morrow.  It 
is  certainly  your  duty  to  lose  no  time  in  setting 
your  affairs  in  order.  I  think  you  should  see 
your  sister,  Mr.  Carlyon.  I  met  her  only  yes- 
terday afternoon,  and  she  spoke  most  kindly  of 
you." 

"Most  kindly  of  me?  Then  she  must  cer- 
tainly have  been  speaking  very  ill  of  me  to 
somebody  else.  I  Have  always  observed  that 
in  Meg.  After  administering  a  great  deal  of 
scourge  she  sometimes  applies  a  little  balsam." 
"You  are  uncharitable,  Carlyon.  She  not 
only  spoke  quite  enthusiastically  of  your  hero- 
ism upon  the  sands  the  other  day,  but  also  very 


48 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


jmtronizingly  (you  know  her  way)  about  Miss 
Aj,'iies,  wliDui  slic  liiicl  just  been  to  see  at  Grey- 
crags.  Wliy,  what's  the  matter?  Excitement 
of  this  sort  is  tiic  very  worst  thing — " 

"  Did  my  sister  go  to  Greycrags?"  exclaim- 
ed Ciirlyon,  starting  to  iiis  feet.  "Did  tliat  ly- 
ing woman  sjieak  to  Agnes  ?  It  is  she  then 
whom  I  have  to  thank  for  this — tliis  letter.  I 
see  it  all  now.  She  did  not  wish  me  to  many, 
lest  Woodlees  should  not  revert  to  her  Jed- 
ediah ;  and  to  stop  it  she  maligns  me  to  Agnes. 
The  hyjJocrite,  the  backbiter!" 

"  You  are  killing  yourself,  Mr.  Carlyon," 

"You  are  right;  I  will  be  very  careful,"' re- 
turned the  other,  bitterly,  and  pacing  the  room 
with  hasty  strides.  "I  sliould  be  sorry  to  die 
within  the  next  few  days.  Perhiips  you  will 
call  to-morrow,  and  sec  how  I  am." 

Carlyon  took  the  little  man  by  the  arm  and 
gently,  but  firmly,  urged  him  toward  the  door. 

"It  is  no  use  my  coming  to  see  you,  sir," 
expostulated  the  doctor ;  "  I  can  do  nothing 
for  j'ou." 

"  Very  well,  then,  don't  come,"  returned  the 
other,  quietly.  "I  shall  remember  you  all  the 
same,  as  if  you  did." 

"  Sir!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Carstairs. 

"  Forgive  me,  old  friend ;  I  am  not  myself. 
I  do  not  know  what  I  am  saying.  I  thank  you 
for  all  your  kindness,  and  especially  for  your 
telling  me  the  truth." 

Doctor  and  patient  shook  hands  warmly 
enough.  Although  widely  different,  each  re- 
s])ccted  the  other  after  his  fashion. 

"For  God's  sake  keep  yourself  quiet,"  was 
the  kindly  and  characteristic  remark  of  the  for 
mer,  as  he  rode  away. 

Carlyon  nodded,  then  turned  to  Robin. 

"Tell  James  to. saddle  Red  Berild  directly, 
and  then  come  to  me." 

"Red  Berild,  Mr.  John?"  returned  the  old 
man,  scarcely  believing  his  ears,  for  it  was  rare- 
ly that  any  one  ever  crossed  that  horse  except 
his  master, 

"Did  not  I  say  so?"  obsei'ved  Carlyon, 
coolly,  and,  returning  to  the  parlor,  sat  himself 
down  to  write.  The  note  was  finished  before 
the  groom  came,  and  he  began  to  fret  and  fume,  j 

"You  have  been  a  long  time  coming,  sir,"  j 
said  he,  with  unwonted  sternness;   "  and  Red 
Berild  must  make  up  for  your  delay.     Do  not 
spare  the   spur.     I  want  this  letter   taken  to  ' 
Burnthorp,  to  Mr.  Scrivens." 

"  Tlie  lawyer,  sir?" 

"  Yes,  the  lawyer;  who  else?     There  is  no' 
answer;    but  he  or  his  partner   is  to  come  at' 
once.     If  the  means  of  conveyance  are  wanted, 
lend  him  3-our  horse,  and  you  will  walk." 

"It  is  twenty  miles,"  murmured  the  groom, 
thinking  of  the  distance  to  be  traversed  by 
shank's,  his  ((inaccustomcd)  mare.  ; 

"I  sliall  expect  him  here  in  four  hours," 
observed  Carlyon,  referring  to  his  watch  instead 
of  to  this  remonstrance. 

When  sentence  of  death  is  pronounced  by 
one's  doctor,  we  think — that  is,  just  at  lirst — 


that  it  is  going  to  be  executed  forthwith  ;  nnd 
we  are  in  a  particulnr  hurry  to  make  our  wills. 


CHAFTER  XVII. 

MR.  SCRIVESS'S  LITTI.E  BIISTAKE. 

Those  who  collect  tlie  statistics  of  death-bed 
scenes,  without  the  intention  of  confounding  the 
sceptic,  are  aware  that,  for  tlie  most  part,  folks 
die  as  they  have  lived  ;  that  is  to  say,  according 
to  their  several  constitutions.  Good  Christians, 
if  of  a  nervous  temperament,  are  alarmed. 
Phlegmatic  persons,  even  if  they  have  no  sure 
grounds  of  religious  belief,  arc  to  the  last  (what 
their  friends  call)  "  pliilosophic."  reo])le  little 
accustomed  to  thought  of  any  kind,  rarely  feel, 
or,  at  all  events,  exhibit,  any  mental  emotion. 
An  old  officer  of  experience  once  told  me  that 
he  had  seen  upward  of  a  hundred  soldiers  die  in 
hospital,  and  not  one  of  them  was  moved  by  the 
prospect  of  dissolution  at  all.  At  thcsametime 
it  must  be  owned  that  much  of  this  immobility 
may  arise  from  the  indefiniteness  of  the  time 
when  death  shall  be  actually  knocking  at  the 
gate.  People  talk  of  the  uncertainty  of  life  as 
a  reason  for  rejicntance  ;  but,  in  reality,  its  un- 
certainty is  the  great  encouragement  for  procras- 
tination. There  may  be  no  hope,  but  also  the 
danger  often  does  not  appear  immediate,  until  it 
has  actually  overwhelmed  us.  Criminals,  it  is 
true,  when  theirday  of  certain  doom  draws  nigh, 
are,  in  many  cases,  terribly  agitated  ;  but  these 
last  are  exceptionably  bad  subjects  for  any  such 
trial,  since  they  have  especial  good  reasons  for 
feeling  remorse,  and  for  fearing  retribution. 
The  old  are,  as  a  general  rule,  least  impressed 
with  the  nearness  of  dissolution.  They  have 
lived  so  long  without  dving,  that  it  has  become, 
as  it  were,  a  confirmed  habit  with  them  ;  and 
they  can  not  picture  to  themselves,  while  still  in 
tolerable  health,  so  radical  a  change. 

In  Carlyon's  case,  if  jNIr.  Carstairs  had  con- 
fined himself  to  saying,  "You  have  heart  com- 
plaint of  the  most  serious  character ;  yon  may 
die  any  day ;  your  life  is  not  worth  six  months' 
purchase,"  his  patient  would  not,  perhaps,  have 
been  much  moved  ;  but  the  addition,  "I  do  not 
think  it  possible,"  or  "  I  will  pledge  my  profes- 
sional reputation" — which  was  it? — "that  you 
will  not  live  a  year,"  made  the  professional 
opinion  very  striking. 

Carlyon  sat  alone  in  the  dark  little  chamber, 
looking  forth  ujion  the  many-flowered  garden, 
faint  and  odorous  in  the  hot  noon,  and  strange 
thoughts  Indeed  were  busy  within  him.  He 
had  read  long  ago  at  school  in  some  Latin  au- 
thor (he  did  not  even  remember  that  it  was  Cic- 
ero), "No  man  is  so  old  but  that  he  imagines 
he  will  live  a  year ;"  and  this  line,  arising  in  hi.s 
mind  sudden  and  unsummoned  as  a  ghost,  be- 
gan to  haunt  it.  There  was  no  man  in  health, 
then,  in  the  whole  world,  so  old  but  that  he 
looked  to  live  longer  (by  so  much  time  as  the 
doctor  had  already  left  the  house)  than  himself. 
Curiously  cn(jugh,  while  tlius  confining  himself 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


49 


rigidly  within  tlic  life-limit  assigned,  this  man 
did  not  now  considor  the  iirobability  of  dying  in 
the  interim.  The  iiiiprehension  that  had  caused 
him  so  hastily  to  dispatch  the  groom  to  Burn- 
thorp  was  already  gone.  It  seemed  as  though 
some  warning  such  as  is  stated  to  have  some- 
times come  to  mortals  from  beyond  the  grave, 
had  fixed  his  death  at  a  certain  date.  Only  a 
year,  neither  more  nor  less,  save  by  a  few  min- 
utes, to  live.  How  strange  itseemcd  to  think 
that  this  self-same  sunny  hour  would  nev- 
er return  for  him  again.  Thus,  every  succeed- 
ing day  would  be  the  last  of  its  date  for  him. 
That,  after  a  few  weeks,  no  summer  would  shine 
for  him  more ;  no  autumn  after  the  next  bear 
its  f\xir  fruit ;  no  winter — this  was  his  favorite 
season — afford  its  usual  sports,  save  once.  Then 
spring,  which  to  all  his  kind  was  the  welcome 
herald  of  so  much,  would  come  only  to  make 
the  earth  green  for  his  grave ;  how  strange  it 
seemed  that  the  occurrence  of  no  one  of  nature's 
operations  should  (precisely)  take  place  for 
hini  again  ;  never  to  see  the  sliadow  of  yonder 
dial  begin  to  lengthen  on  the  grass,  exactly  as 
it  was  doing  to-day.  Stay ;  would  it  ever  do  so 
exactly,  llis  mind  began  to  seek  what  little 
science  was  in  it  to  imagine  how  this  might  be. 
Then  it  reverted  to  the  dial,  and  thence,  natu- 
rally enough,  to  the  story  of  King  Hezekiah. 

"There  will  be  no  miracle  done  for  my  sake, 
I  suppose,"  muttered  he,  with  bitterness.  Then, 
losing  his  scornful  look,  he  added,  tenderly, 
"When  she  hears  this,  how  she  will  pray  that 
I  may  improve  my  year  of  grace.     Sweet  soul !" 

His  hand  mechanically  sought  the  letter  in  his 
pocket,  and  at  the  touch  of  it  his  brow  grew  dark. 

Only  one  quarter  gone  of  the  earliest  time  in 
which  he  could  except  Jlr.  Scri^cns  to  arrive. 
If  hours  were  to  pass  like  this  his  life  would  be 
a  long  one  after  all.  He  sat  down  to  write,  and 
occupied  himself  with  certain  papers,  until  there 
was  a  far-off  sound  of  wheels :  some  vehicle  was 
slowly  entering  the  great  gates  ;  a  craunch  upon 
the  gravel  sweep.     Yes,  he  was  come. 

A  red  little  dapper  man  was  Mr.  Sci'ivens, 
bald,  except  for  a  rim  of  sandy  hair,  and  with  a 
ferret  face  half  hidden  by  huge  red  whiskers, 
which  it  was  his  constant  ambition  to  get  both 
in  his  mouth  at  once.  Holding  one  fiist  be- 
tween his  teeth,  and  coaxing  the  other  with  his 
white  hand  (of  which  he  was  very  vain)  toward 
the  same  trap,  was  his  habitual  occupation  ;  and 
when  he  had  succeeded  in  the  double  capture, 
he  would  let  them  go,  and  begin  again.  Not- 
withstanding this  impediment  to  conversation, 
his  words  flowed  like  a  river.  He  had  not  been 
at  all  put  out  by  the  suddenness  of  Mr.  Carlyon's 
summons  ;  quite  the  contrary  ;  he  was  delighted, 
charmed,  after  so  many  years,  to  revisit  Wood- 
lees.  The  last  time  was — ahem — upon  a  very 
melancholy  occasion.  "A  good  man,  sir,  was 
your  poor  father,  an  excellent  man.     Yes,  yes." 

"I  sent  for  you  thus  hastily,  Mr.  Scrivens, 
upon  a  business  matter,  which  to  me,  at  least, 
seems  pressing,"  began  Carlyon,  without  notic- 
ing these  interjectional  remarks.  "  At  present, 
D 


I  believe,  in  case  of  my  dying  intestate,  all  the 
proj)crty  I  jiosscss  would  go  to  my  sister — " 

"  Keal  (iiid  personal,  sir,  without  doubt. 
And  a  very  pretty  projierty,  too.  Mrs.  New- 
man is  well,  I  trust,  sir ;  Mr.  Jedediah,  your 
ncj)hcw,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing — " 

"  I  wish  to  make  a  will,  Mr.  vScrivens.  Here 
are  ink  and  paper,  be  so  good  as  to  take  my  in- 
structions." 

"Very  right  and  very  proper,  my  dear  sir," 
observed  the  lawyer,  encouragingly  ;  "  one  of 
the  first  things  that  a  man  should  do,  upon^ 
emerging  from  what  the  law  holds  to  be  infan- 
cy, is  to  make  a  will — that  is,  provided  that  he 
has  any  thing  to  leave ;  otherwise  the  precau- 
tion is  needless.  Even  in  your  case,  a  man  in 
I  the  prime  of  life,  with  what  I  may  venture  to 
call  a  constitution  of  iron — " 

"To  my  nephew,  Jedediah  Newman,  I  wish 
to  leave  the  sum  of  five  hundred  pounds,  Mr. 
Scrivens." 

"  Just  so,  sir.  Something  for  himself,  as  it 
were,  inde])endent  of  mamma,  eh.  Young  men 
often  stand  much  in  need  of  such  forethought 
as  you  display.  Not  that  your  nephew,  let  us 
hope,  with  the  example  of  so  excellent  a  mother 
before  his  eyes,  so  prudent,  so — ahem — so  dis- 
creet, would  be  likely  to  have  embarrassed  him- 
j  self." 

"My  nephew  is  a  scamp,   I   believe,"   ob- 
served Carlyon,  dryly  ;   "  but  that  is  no  matter 
j  to   me.     I   wish   to    leave    him    five    hundred 
pounds." 

"Just  so,  sir.     No  matter  at  all.     Young 
men  will  be  young  men.     Too  tight  a  curb  at 
I  home — we  know  the  rest.     Any  other  particu- 
j  lar  bequest?" 

"  Yes.  Robin  must  have  an  annuity  of  fifty 
pounds  for  life  ;  and  the  other  servants — their 
names  are  written  on  this  paper — of  twenty 
pounds." 

"  Very  considerate,  I  am  sure,  jMr.  Carlyon," 
returned  ]\Ir.  Scrivens,  setting  down  these  par- 
[  ticulars,  "service  is  no  inheritance,  as  the  say- 
ing is.     Any  more  special  bequests?" 

"  I  wish  a  hundred  guineas  to  be  paid  to  Mr. 
Carstairs,  of  Mellor.     That  is  all." 

Peihaps  Mr.  Scrivens  was  secretly  disap- 
I  pointed  that  that  ivas  all,  imagining  that  the 
name  of  one's  legal  adviser  as  well  as  of  one's 
family  doctor  might  have  appeared  in  the  docu- 
ment ;  for  this  time  he  said  nothing,  and  silence, 
with  Mr.  Scrivens,  meant  not  consent,  but  dis- 
apjirobation. 

j       "The  whole  of  my  property,  real  and  per- 
sonal, with  the  aforsaid  deductions  only,  I  wish 
^  to  bequeath  to  Agnes,  daughter  of  My.  Robert 
Crawford,  of  Greycrags." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Carlyon  !"     The  imprisoned 
whiskers  flew  from  their  ivory  jailers,  for  the 
lawyer's  lower  jaw  had  suddenly  fallen. 
"  You  are  not  in  earnest,  sir,  surely  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?"  continued  the  client,  gravely. 
"I,  John  Carlyon,  being  of  sound  mind,  do 
hereby — you  have  dropped  your  pen,  Mr.  Scriv- 
ens." 


30 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  observed  the  other, 
humlily :  "the  Carlyons  have  held  Woodlees 
for  tliree  hundred  years,  and  just  at  first  I  miss- 
ed your  meaning.  As  your  family  lawyer,  I 
was  about  to  enter  a  resjicctful  protest ;  but,  of 
course,  when  a  lady's  in  the  case,  all  other 
things  give  ]ilace.  Ahem  !  Permit  me  to  con- 
gratulate you,  my  dear  sir,  with  all  my  heart. 
I  have  heard  the  young  lady  spoken  of  very 
highly." 

Carlyon  bowed  with  considerable  stiffness, 
and  signed  that  his  companion  should  resume 
his  writing. 

"  No,  sir,  no,"  said  Mr.  Scrivens,  gayly,  and 
with  a  whisker  in  each  hand,  "  the  thing  can't 
be  done — at  least,  not  ait  present." 

"Then  I'll  get  somebody  else  to  do  it," 
ejaculated  the  other. 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  mistake  me,"  pursued  the 
lawyer,  blandly.  "I  can,  of  course,  do  as  you 
request ;  but  it  will  all  be  labor  in  vain.  Dear 
me,  how  ignorant  you  laymen  are  of  the  sim- 
plest rules  of  law — though  it  is  not  for  me  to  I'e- 
gret  it,  far  from  it." 

"  Will  you  leave  off  making  those  damnable 
faces,  and  begin?"  shouted  Carlyon. 

"My  dear  sir,"  explained  the  lawyer,  with 
some  precipitation,  "  these  instructions  are  value- 
less :  that  is  the  sim])le  fact.  They  will  become 
waste  paper  upon  the  day  of  your  union  with 
this  young  lady.     Marriage  invalidates — " 

"I  am  not  going  to  be  married,  sir,"  inter- 
rupted Carlyon,  in  a  voice  that  made  the  lawyer's 
blood  run  cold.  "  Now,  your  impertinent  curi- 
osity is  satisfied,  sir,  perhaps  you  will  do  as  you 
were  told." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

ME.  RICHARD  GETS  SOME  GOOD  ADVICE. 

Scarce  a  week  has  elapsed  since  the  incident 
recorded  in  our  last  chapter,  but  it  has  wit- 
nessed great  changes,  or  what  were  considered 
such  at  Mellor.  John  Carlyon  has  broken  up 
his  establishment — not,  however,  without  re- 
membrance of  those  who  had  belonged  to  it — 
and  Woodlees  is  advertised  to  be  sold.  These 
facts  alone  were  dainty  dishes  enough  to  be  set 
upon  the  tea-tables  of  the  neighborhood  ;  but 
there  were  a  score  of  other  strange  reports  re- 
specting the  young  squire  beside.  Quite  a  glut 
of  gossip,  in  short,  and  yet  the  market  was  very 
far  from  dull.  The  more  immediate  cause  of 
this  charming  state  of  affairs  was  old  Robin.  In 
spite  of  his  protest  that  he  was  "no  tittle-tattle," 
there  was  no  ancient  female  in  the  county  so  in- 
capable of  retaining  a  secret.  Nature  had 
ordained  that  he  must  out  with  it  or  burst.  Was 
it  not  painful  enough  to  have  been  the  witness 
of  his  dear  master's  seizure,  without  the  addi- 
tional torture  of  having  to  conceal  that  most 
interesting  occurrence  ?  To  expect  silence  was 
to  be  too  exacting,  too  exorbitant.  There  was 
no  "ambiguous  giving  out"  either,  in  Robin's 


reference  to  this  calamity.  "  Mr.  John  was  in  a 
fit,  and  Doctor  Carstairs  a-bleedin'  on  him." 

Then  followed  the  scarcely  less  exciting  nar- 
ration of  the  sending  for  Mr.  Scrivens.  After 
what- had  happened,  this  prompt  measure  could 
have  been  taken  for  no  other  purpose  than  that 
of  prejjaring  a  will.  Excei)t  as  to  details  (which 
were  sought  after  with  feverish  eagerness),  no 
farther  information  was  recjuircd  by  an  intelli- 
gent public.  They  "  j)ut  two  and  two  together" 
with  a  rapidity  unequaled  even  in  the  old  coach- 
ing days. 

John  Carlyon  had  had  a  fit :  apoplexy,  epilep- 
sy, paralysis  ;  there  was  a  great  opportunity  here 
for  imagination,  and  that  display  of  medical 
science  so  grateful  to  the  human  mind — nay,  it 
was  even  darkly  whispered  by  some  folks,  delir- 
ium tremens.  W^ith  the  prospect  of  immediate 
dissolution  before  his  eyes,  the  sceptic  had  char- 
acteristically  concentrated  his  thoughts  ujion  his 
temporal  affairs.  Mr.  Scrivens  on  his  part  had 
been,  for  the  present,  reticent  enough,  notwith- 
standing that  Jedediah  had  ridden  over  to  Burn- 
thorp  within  the  last  few  days,  on  pretense  of 
"  looking  at  ahorse"  which  the  lawyer  happened 
to  wish  to  part  with,  and  had  endeavored  to 
pump  him  ;  but  tliis  announcement  of  Woodleec 
to  be  sold,  spoke  for  itself.  John  Carlyon  must 
have  willed  his  property  away  in  some  direction 
other  than  its  legitimate  channel,  else  why  was 
the  family  residence  to  be  thus  disposed  of? 

Mrs.  Newman  maintained  a  calm  exterior — 
some  people  called  it  "  malice  at  a  white  heat" 
— and  only  shook  her  head  and  touched  her  fore- 
head when  the  subject  was  mentioned.  She  was 
understood  to  imply  that  her  unfortunate  brother 
was  not  answerable  for  his  actions,  and  doubt- 
less it  would  have  afforded  her  great  satisfaction 
if  such  had  been  indeed  the  fact,  and  the  law 
could  have  been  got  to  certify  it. 

Now,  as  is  not  unusual  in  such  cases,  the  per- 
son whom  all  these  rumors  chiefly  pointed  to, 
namely,  Agnes  Crawford,  was  least  aware  ot 
their  existence.  She  knew  that  Carlyon  had 
left  Mellor,  and  that  Woodlees  was  to  be  sold, 
and  she  had  a  suspicion,  which  gnawed  the  tender 
heart  within  her,  of  what  had  sent  him  away. 
Her  conscience  reproached  her  twenty  times  a 
day  for  having  done  the  very  thing  which  it  had 
before  insisted  upon.  Its  old  self,  if  I  may  say 
so,  had  now  no  ally  except  in  those  bitter  words 
which  Mrs.  Newman  had  flung  at  her  at  parting. 
It  was  they  which  had  turned  the  scale  in  the 
late  conflict  within  her,  and  which  now  played 
the  part  of  the  metropolitan  brigade  upon  the 
flame  of  love.  But  they  no  longer  made  head 
against  the  devouring  element.  Now  that  the 
goods  had  been  removed  and  the  fire  was  con- 
fined to  the  premises,  the  flaming  serpents  flick- 
ered over  the  em])ty  rooms  and  the  bare  walls  at 
their  wild  will.  Now  slie  had  lost  him  forever, 
Agnes  began  to  feel  how  deeply  she  had  loved 
Carlyon.  And  how  he  must  have  loved  her, 
since  one  word  of  hers  had  sent  him  forth,  she 
knew  not  whither,  and  made  his  home  so  hateful 
to  him  that  he  had  resolved  to  enter  it  no  more  ! 


CARLYON'S  YEAE. 


51 


Was  it  likely  that  ho  would  make  any  use  of 
that  sacred  book,  which  had  accompanied  an 
answer  so  curt  and  so  unwelcome  ?  True,  its 
brevity  had  been  agreed  upon,  nay,  proposed  by 
himself;  but  might  she  not,  nevertheless,  have 
becomingly  added  something  to  have  made  rejec- 
tion at  least  less  ungracious,  considering  too  that 
she  was  addressing,  probably  for  the  last  time, 
the  preserver  of  her  life  ?  Her  cheeks  burned 
while  she  thought  of  this,  not  m  self-reproach, 
but  from  the  consciousness  that  she  had  acted 
thus  through  love  for  him.  For  she  had  not 
dared  trust  her  fingers  to  write  more.  Ah !  if 
he  could  have  only  known  what  it  had  cost  her 
to  be  so  coldly  brief!  But  now  he  would  desj)ise 
her  i)arting  gift,  even  more  tlian  his  scepticism 
would  have  prompted  him  to  do,  from  contempt 
of  ilie  giver.  She  had  had  it  in  her  power  to 
move  his  unbelieving  heart,  perhaps  to  win  it, 
to  the  truth  ,  but  she  had  refused  to  take  advan- 
tage of  so  rare  and  blessed  an  ojiportunity.  His 
errors,  nay,  his  very  condemnation,  might  lie  at 
her  door.  And  why  ?  Because  she  feared,  as 
Mrs.  Newman  had  suggested,  being  herself  per- 
verted from  the  right  way?  Xo  ;  but  because 
she  feared  to  have  imputed  to  her  the  vulgar, 
sordid  motives  she  was  assumed  by  that  plain- 
spoken  lady  to  entertain.  Such  ideas  had  never 
so  much  as  entered  into  her  brain  ;  it  was  only 
this  woman  who  had  thrust  them  there ;  but 
once  admitted — like  a  vile  image  intruded  on  a 
pure  mind — she  could  no  longer  be  ignorant  of 
their  existence.  Although  slie  had  not  been  in- 
fluenced by  them,  others,  girls  like  herself,  might 
be  so  ;  what  Mrs.  Newman  thought  of  her,  others 
might  think  of  her.  Perhaps  Carlyon  himself 
— no,  she  would  not  think  that ;  but  had  not  he 
too  expressed  his  conviction  that  her  father 
would  not  oi)pose  himself  to  their  union  ?  Had 
he  then  any  reason  to  believe  that  he  was  pro- 
moting it  ?  Was  she  being  thrown  in  this  rich 
man's  way,  as  manoeuvring  mothers  were  said  to 
throw  their  daughters  ?  She  felt  the  hot  blood 
tingle  to  her  ear-tips,  at  this  shameful  thought. 
And  yet  to  whom,  unless  to  her  father,  had  this 
woman  referred  when  she  had  talked  of  her 
"springing  from  no  one  knows  whom  or 
whence  ?"  Agnes  shuddered  I  the  red  rose  turned 
to  white ;  and  she  closed  her  eyes  as  though  to 
shut  out  some  horrible  scene. 

Bitter  as  was  the  cup  she  had  now  to  drink,  it 
was  perhaps  well  to  do  so.  Bad  as  it  seemed,  even 
worse  might  have  befallen  ;  and  with  that  ineffec- 
tual balm  she  strove  to  heal  a  wounded  heart. 

Thus  Agnes  Crawford  argued  with  herself, 
now  yearning  for  his  love,  now  fortifying  her 
heart  against  him  with  materials  from  the  arsenal 
of  Mrs.  Grundy,  and  now  agitated  by  a  nameless 
sorrow  which,  arising  in  the  far-back  past,  threw 
forward  such  a  shadow  as  seemed  to  make 
gloomy  all  her  future. 

It  was  while  meditating  on  this  secret  grief, 
while  sitting  in  her  old  place  by  the  open  window 
of  the  drawing-room  looking  out  upon  the  emjity 
lawn,  that  Richard  Crawford  found  her  one 
morning,  and  took  a  chair  by  her  side.     He  had 


treated  her  of  late  with  marked  but  unobtrusive 
kindness.  In  the  absence  of  the  man  he  held  to 
be  his  rival  he  had  become  once  more  his  usual 
self,  affectionately  respectful,  reverent.  He  knew 
that  Carlyon  had  been  refused,  and  therefore 
that  the  great  ol)Stacle  to  his  success  was  done 
away  with.  He  had  never  despaired  until  that 
man  came  and  stepjied  between  him  and  his 
cousin  from  the  first,  taking  advantage  of  the  ac- 
cident that  had  introduced  himself  to  her  so 
favorably.  If  it  had  not  been  for  his  horse,  he 
could  not  have  saved  her ;  and  had  not  Iw 
(Richard)  been  equally  willing  to  sacrifice  his 
life  for  hers?  How  hateful  it  was  to  think  that 
he  owed  his  own  safety  to  this  country  squire, 
wiio  held  his  head  so  high,  and  cared  for  nobody, 
and  could  make  his  way  so  easily  into  the  wom- 
an's heart,  which  he  —  her  cousin  and  an  in- 
mate under  the  same  roof — had  failed  to  win. 
However,  this  rival  was  now  removed,  and  as  it 
seemed  forever.  If  his  own  place  was  to  be 
only  second  in  her  affections  she  should  still  be 
his  wife ;  if  the  other  had  won,  it  was  he  who 
should  wear.  As  sure  as  the  sun  shone  she 
should  be  his.  He  had  been  assured  of  that  all 
along  ;  but  he  had  not  been  certain  of  securing 
his  object  by  legitimate  means.  He  would  liave 
used  any  had  Carlyon  intervened  between  them  ; 
but  now  there  would  surely  be  no  necessity  for 
proceeding  to  such  extremities.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  He  had  already 
received  a  hint  from  his  uncle,  equivalent  as  he 
was  well  aware  to  a  peremjitory  order,  that  he 
had  taken  holiday  long  enough,  and  must  be  pre- 
pared for  another  sea-voyage — perhaps  as  long 
as  the  last.  Without  a  solemn  promise  from 
Agnes  that  she  would  be  his  wife,  he  was  resolved 
not  to  go.     And  he  was  now  about  to  exact  it. 

"Agnes,"  said  he,  with  a  grave  tenderness, 
that  was  not  assumed,  and  became  the  young 
man  very  well,  "  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

"  Yes,  cousin."  She  turned  her  head  slowly 
toward  him,  and  her  voice,  though  kind  and 
gentle  as  always,  had  the  unconcern  of  preoccu- 
pation in  its  tone. 

"Something,"'  said  he,  more  earnestly,  "for 
which  I  beg  your  best  attention ;  it  affects  us 
both  very  nearly,  but  to  me  it  is  all  in  all." 

"Yes,  Richard." 

A  month  ago  she  would  have  already  begun 
to  reprove  him ;  but  now  she  did  not  seem  to 
apprehend  to  what  sucli  words  needs  must  lead. 
This  coolness  galled  him  far  more  than  her  dis- 
pleasure would  have  done ;  but  lie  was  very 
humble  and  quiet, 

"  My  uncle  says  that  I  have  had  holiday 
enough,  and  that  I  must  go  to  sea  again  forth- 
with." 

"Poor  boy,"  returned  she,  pitj'ingly,  almost 
caressingly  ;  "and  yet  you  do  not  seem  to  have 
been  long  at  home.  I  think  that's  hard.  I'll 
ask  my  father — " 

"No,  thank  you,  Agnes,"  answered  he, 
coldly;  "I  am  not  a  child  to  be  begged  off 
a  day  or  two  from  school.     I  am  a  man  now." 


)2 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


"A  very  joimg  one,  Richard,"  replied 
his  cousin,  smiling.  "Nay,  don't  be  cross; 
you  will  laugh,  yourself,  when  you  conic  home 
next,  with  a  great  Ijcard,  i)erhaps,  to  think  how, 
as  a  stripling,  you  once  imagined  yourself  to  be 
11  patriarch. " 

"  Don't  jest,  Agnes,  for  I  can't  bear  it.  As 
to  going  to  sea,  it  is  my  profession,  and,  as 
you  know,  I  like  it  dearly.  I  don't  mind  hard- 
ships. I  would  not  live  a  life  of  idleness,  such 
as  I  lead  here,  even  if  I  could.  I  know  one  has 
got  one's  work  to  do  in  the  world,  and  I  am  no 
skulker." 

''Bravely  said,  Richard.  There  is  nobody 
who  will  be  so  proud  of  you  as  I  shall  be  when 
you  achieve  the  success  you  merit.  We  two 
are  alone  in  the  world,  for,  except  my  father, 
^v•c  have  no  other  kith  or  kin  ;  and  blood  is  ever 
so  much  stronger  that  water,  cousin." 

Her  white  hand  sought  his  shoulder  and  there 
rested  ;  her  voice  had  the  honest  ring  of  affec- 
tionate good-will.  But  neither  touch  nor  tone 
were  welcome  to  the  recipient. 

"Blood  is  nothing  to  me,"  answered  the 
young  man,  impatiently.  "If  you  sprang  from 
the  other  side  of  the  world,  I  should  love  you 
equally  well.  I  wish  you  did,  since  you  vex 
me  so  with  'cousin,  cousin.'  " 

"I  hope,  Richard,  you  are  not  going  to  vex 
me."  observed  Agnes,  withdrawing  her  hand, 
"  with  the  same  talk  which  I  have  already  for- 
bidden you  to  use.  That  is  not  behaving  like 
a  gentleman." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  pas- 
sionately ;  ' '  can  it  be  wrong,  when  every 
thought  within  mo  shapes  itself  into  the  words, 
'  I  love  you,'  not  to  utter  them?  I  know  I  am 
young,  and  that  there  is  time  to  sjfare.  I  do 
not  press  you  to  be  my  wife,  Agnes — that  is, 
not  yet.  I  can  be  patient.  I  trust  to  show 
myself  worthy  of  you  before  I  win  you.  But, 
now  that  I  am  about  to  go  away,  I  know  not  for 
how  long,  I  want  to  hear  from  your  own  lips  a 
pledge — well,  then,  not  a  pledge — I  shall  be 
content,  God  knows,  with  very,  very  little.  Only 
a  little  hope,  that  is  all  I  ask :  one  gleam  ot 
light  to  cheer  me  on  my  lonely  way.  Nay,  hear 
me  out.  Promise  me  that  you  will  never  wed 
another,  never  plight  your  troth  to  another,  un- 
til I  come  back  from  sea." 

"  That  is  very  easily  done,  Richard,"  return- 
ed the  young  girl,  calmly  ;  "  and  I  would  do  it 
gladly,  but  for  that  which  such  a  promise  would 
imply.  You  will  find  me  as  you  leave  me,  cous- 
in, you  may  be  sure  of  tliat — quite  sure.'' 

Carlyon's  chance  was  gone,  of  that  Richard 
felt  certain ;  but  notwithstanding  her  quiet 
smile,  there  was  a  melancholy  in  her  voice  that 
jarred  upon  his  jealous  ear. 

"Then,  why  not  give  me  hope?"  lU'ged  the 
young  man.  "If,  as  you  say"  (here  he  fixed 
iiis  dark  eyes  upon  her  searchingly),  "  you  do  not 
love  another — you  do  !  you  do .'"  exclaimed  he 
passionately;  "you  are  deceiving  me.  This 
fellow  has  not  really  left  the  place.  You  are 
only  waiting  till  my  back  is  turned." 


"  Sir,"  said  she,  with  a  white  face,  but  speak- 
ing very  calmly;  "you  said  awliile  ago  that  you 
regretted  we  were  kith  and  kin.  After  such 
words  as  you  have  last  spoken,  I  regret  it  too. 
A  man  indeed !  None  but  a  reckless  boy,  for- 
getting to  whom  he  speaks,  could  have  so  trans- 
gressed." 

"  But  is  it  not  true?"  urged  the  young  man, 
half  abashed,  yet  still  suspicious.  "Why  did 
your  color  change  else,  when  I  said  '  you  do  not 
love  another  ?'  Give  mc  your  sacred  word,  Ag- 
nes, that  you  have  not  ]jledged  j'ourself  to  John 
Carlyon,  and  then  I  will  believe  you." 

"I  deny  your  ri^'ht  to  ask  me  any  such  ques- 
tion, sir  ;  but  if  it  will  jnit  a  stop  to  all  such  talk 
as  tliis,  once  and  forever,  I  will  tell  you.  Mr. 
Carlyon  has  asked  me  to  become  his  wife,  and  I 
have  refused  him." 

"But  if  he  were  to  do  so,  now?"  inquired 
Richard,  eagerly. 

' '  Now,  or  at  any  future  time,  would  be  the 
same;  I  should  still  I'efuse  him.  You  seem 
pleased,  sir,  with  this  news.  But,  let  me  tell 
you  farther,  since  I  have  said  so  much,  that 
what  1  have  said  of  Mr.  Carlvon  applies  tenfold 
to  you.  My  purpose  is  to  marry  no  man.  But 
did  I  marry,  I  should  choose  a  gentleman — no 
eavesdropper,  who  suspects  the  woman  he  pre- 
tends to  love,  nor  one  who  sets  a  servant  to  play 
the  spy  upon  her  mistress— yes,  I  know  you,  sir. 
The  next  time  that  you  propose  to  yourself  to 
win  a  woman's  heart,  be  honest,  be  open,  lest, 
instead  of  love,  you  reap  contempt,  as  you  have 
reaped  with  me."     * 

He  had  never  seen  her — no  one  had  ever 
seen  her — half  so  wrathful,  half  so  moved. 
Erect,  to  her  full  height,  she  stood,  and  flashed 
her  words  upon  his  bent-down  head. 

"Be  honest,  be  open,"  reiterated  she,  as  she 
laid  her  hand  upon  the  door,  "that  is  my  part- 
ing advice  to  you,  Cousin  Richard." 

The  words  seemed  to  scorch  his  ears. 

"  I  will  take  it,  Cousin  Agnes,"  said  he,  qui- 
etly. "  You  will  see  me  from  henceforth  quite 
another  man."  Even  while  he  spoke  his  mo- 
bile countenance  grew  staid  and  firm  ;  his  thin 
lips  ceased  to  tremble.  "I  will,  so  help  me 
heaven!" 

"  I  hope  heaven  will,  Richard,  for  you  need 
its  help." 

She  closed  the  door  behind  her  with  those 
words. 

"Yes,  I  will  be  open  enough,"  muttered 
Richard,  grimly;  "although  not  Mith  her. 
She  must  never  know  what  I  am  about  to  do ; 
and,  indeed,  how  should  she,  since  he  would  be 
the  last  to  tell  her.  She  has  only  herself  to 
thank  for  it ;  she  has  driven  me  to  it.  I  would 
have  won  her,  if  I  could,  by  any  other  way." 

He  passed  out  of  the  room  and  up  the  stairs ; 
then  took  the  turning  that  led  to  his  uncle's 
chamber.  A  man  servant,  coming  from  that 
direction,  met  him  with,  "The  master  is  scarce- 
ly dressed,  sir;  he  can  not  see  you  yet;"  but 
Richard  pushed  by  him  roughly,  without  reply, 
and  knocked  shariily  at  his  uncle's  door. 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


C3 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


IN     THE    SANCTUM, 


"What  is  the  meaning  of  this  intrusion, 
sir?"  inquired  Mr.  Cruwford,  as  witii  his  j;;iiint 
form  in  dressinjj-gown  and  slijjijcrs,  and  the 
hue  of  anger  upon  Iiis  witliercd  clieek,  lie  stern- 
ly confronted  his  nephew. 

Tlie  scene  was  a  carious  one,  independently 
of  the  striking  contrast  between  the  actors. 
Two  small  rooms,  one  of  w.liich  could  only  be 
reached  by  passing  through  the  other,  were 
used  by  the  master  of  Grcycrags  as  a  sanctum, 
into  which  none  but  his  body-servant  and  Cu- 
bra,  and  at  rare  times,  his  daughter,  were  ad- 
mitted. TNe  rest  of  the  household  regarded 
these  apartments,  cut  off  as  they  were  from  all 
others,  with  a  feeling  akin  to  awe.  In  the 
dead  of  night  slippered  footsteps  were  often 
heard  pacing  to  and  fro,  from  bedroom  to  sit- 
ting-room, for  hours  at  a  time,  albeit,  in  five 
of  his  accustomed  strides  the  old  man  must 
have  stepped  from  wall  to  wall.  It  was  not  the 
impatient  tread,  which  the  servants  sometimes 
heard  of  late  from  Mr.  Richard's  room,  ere  that 
young  gentleman  cast  himself  upon  his  couch 
at  night,  as  often  as  not,  with  his  clothes  on, 
and  lay  there  thinking  unutterable  things,  but 
one  even-paced  monotonous  walk,  such  as  a  man 
might  take  who  has  not  had  enough  of  out-door 
exercise,  during  the  day — a  prisoner  for  in- 
stance ;  or  one  who  is  accustomed  to  think  most 
deeply  when  in  motion,  with  head  depressed 
and  hands  folded  behind  his  back.  However 
late  this  went  on,  there  was  no  stirring  of  coals, 
save  in  the  depth  of  winter  time,  for  although 
so  old,  and  as  he  gave  out,  so  ill,  Mr.  Crawford 
rarely  allowed  himself  the  luxury  of  a  fire. 
This  little  sitting-room,  wherein  Richard  had 
not  set  foot  before,  and  which  he  was  now  re- 
garding, notwithstanding  his  uncle's  wrath,  with 
most  curious  attention,  was  by  no  means  like  a 
boudoir ;  exce])t  for  the  absence  of  a  bed,  its 
bareness  and  unliveable  look,  would  have  bet- 
ter suited  a  mere  sleeping-roora.  The  two 
chairs  it  boasted  were  neitlier  of  them  easy 
ones  ;  the  table  was  without  a  cloth  ;  the  book- 
shelf only  contained  a  diary  (for  the  old  gen- 
tleman was  most  methodical  in  his  habits),  an 
almanac,  and  a  county  directory.  The  only 
article  of  furniture  that  had  any  pretensions  to 
be  considered  ornamental,  was  a  handsome  old 
standing-desk  of  polished  oak,  which  stood 
against  the  window.  Richard,  from  his  post 
of  espial  on  the  hill,  had  often  seen  his  uncle 
writing  at  this  desk,  and  watched  him,  with 
angry  heart,  cast  ever  and  anon,  a  well-pleased 
glance  to  where  Agnes  and  Carlyon  were  sit- 
ting on  the  lawn  below.  There  was  no  door 
between  the  two  rooms,  but  only  an  archway 
with  a  curtain,  which  Mr.  Crawford  iiastiiy 
drew  across  it  on  the  young  man's  entrance, 
yet  not  so  quickly  but  that  Richard  perceived  it 
to  be  even  more  sparely  furnished  than  its  twin- 
chamber,  and  in  particular  that  it  had  no  bed 
at  all,  but  only  a  hammock. 


I      "Do  you  know,  young  man,  that  I  never 

I  permit  uni/  person"  (this  witii  an  angry  accent 

such  as  implied,  "  and  far  less  you'')  "  to  enter 

my  ai)artinent  unless  I  send  for   him  ?     How 

dare  you,  sir?" 

The  eyes  Hashed  fire  from  under  those  shag- 
gy brows,  and  if  the  voice  shook,  like  the  sjicar 
in  ancient  Tarquin's  hand,  it  was  more  through 
ire  than  age. 

Upon  the  other  hand,  the  young  man,  gen- 
erally so  hasty  and  impetuous,  was  very  quiet 
and  self-contained.  There  was  a  strange  look 
of  pity,  too,  upon  his  handsome  features — al- 
though the  other  never  noticed  it,  and  it  quick- 
ly passed  away — and  a  tenderness,  if  not  re- 
spect, in  the  firm  tones  of  his  reply. 

"  Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  sir,"  he  said. 
"I  would  not  have  come  thus  unbidden,  ex- 
cept that  my  business  is  somewhat  pressing." 

"  It  is  not  so  immediate,  I  conclude,  sir," 
answered  the  old  man  still  in  wrath,  "but  that 
it  can  wait  until  I  am  dressed,  and  can  go  down 
to  the  library." 

"  In  the  library  we  may  be  overheard,  uncle, 
and  I  have  got  that  to  say  which,  for  your  own 
sake,  perhaps,  had  better  be  told  where  there  is 
no  chance  of  listeners." 

"For  my  sake,  sir?  That  is  nonsense!"  an- 
swered the  old  man,  impatiently,  but  he  drew 
back,  nevertheless,  and  eyeing  his  nephew 
askance  as  he  closed  the  door,  drew  a  chair  to- 
ward himself  with  trembling  fingers,  and  sat 
down. 

"I  have  something  to  do  this  morning — let- 
ters, papers  —  and  beside,  I  am  worse  than 
usual,''  muttered  he;  "I  can  give  you  very  lit- 
tle time." 

"  I  shall  not  detain  you  five  minutes,  uncle. 
That  is,  if  you  take  the  same  view  of  the  af- 
fair that  brings  me  here,  as  I  do." 

'•  Well,  and  what  does  bring  you  here,  sir?" 

"  ]\Iy  love  for  your  daughter  Agnes,  uncle." 

Richard  had  expected  an  outburst  of  wrath, 
but  the  old  man  only  smiled  grimly.  He 
seemed  to  experience  almost  a  sense  of  pleas- 
ure, and  indeed  he  did  so ;  such  a  feeling  at 
least  as  one  entertains  when  something  befalls 
us  which,  though  not  welcome,  is  not  nearly  so 
unpleasant  as  was  apprehended. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  in  the  grating  voice  to 
which  his  nephew  was  so  well  accustomed. 
"Cousins  should  always  love  one  another. 
But  why  interrupt  my  shaving  to  tell  me  this  ?" 

"  Don't  sneer  at  me,  uncle,  or  you  will  regret 
it."  Again  the  quick  sidelong  look,  and  all 
the  mockery  of  the  ancient  face  giving  place  in 
a  moment  to  suspicious  fear. 

"  Yes,  I  repeat,  you  will  be  sony  for  it — 
some  day." 

"  Ah,  I  see,  when  you  are  away  from  home, 
and  I  begin  to  think  over  your  virtues.  Then 
I  shall  regret  I  snubbed  you?  Well,  I  am  not 
a  very  sentimental  person.  Master  Richard." 

"  No,  uncle.  You  have  some  natural  affec- 
tion, however.  You  care  for  yourself  and  for 
your  daughter.     As  for  mc,  I  know,  you  rath- 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


er  dislike  mc  than  otherwise.  You  liave  never 
hesitated  to  show  it.  You  have  lieen  so  tyran- 
nical and  overbearing  to  nic,  that  1  sometimes 
liken  GreycraRS  to  a  ship,  in  whicli  I  am  the 
cabin-boy  and  you  the  captain.  That  ham- 
mock in  yonder  room  seems  to  complete  the 
meta])hor.  I  say,  Uncle  Crawford,  that  you 
have  behaved  so  brutally  toward  me  from  my 
very  childiiood  that,  it  astonishes  myself  that  I 
venture  to  address  you  as  I  am  doing,  although 
I  am  well  aware  that  you  have  a  very  excellent 
reason  for  keejjing  your  temper.  Shall  I  tell 
you  what  it  is?'' 

"Arc  you  come  here  to  insult  mc,  you  un- 
grateful boy?" 

'•No;  although  as  to  gratitude,  I  utterly 
deny  the  debt.  You  have  given  me  a  home, 
indeed,  but  you  have  treated  me  like  a  dog, 
and  especially  at  times  when  you  knew  such 
treatment  would  gall  the  most.  Do  you  re- 
member when  you  beat  me  in  your  daughter's 
presence,  and  she  stopped  you  witli  her  tears?" 

"Why,  that  was  six  years  ago!"  exclaimed 
the  old  man,  lifting  up  his  long  thin  hands. 

"Yes;  dogs  have  good  memories  for  those 
who  beat  them.  Do  you  not  remember  six 
years  ago,  ay,  and  twenty-six  ?  Come,  sir, 
you  are  weak,  you  say,  and  very  old,  but  you 
remember  what  took  place  six-and-twenty  years 
ago,  I  am  very  sure.  You  shudder,  uncle ; 
you  are  cold.     Permit  me  to  close  the  window." 

The  old  man  would  have  sunk  back  in  his 
chair  had  its  nature  permitted  of  it,  but  as  it 
was,  he  sat  propped  up,  but  huddled  together, 
with  his  eyes  staring  stonily  before  him  upon 
the  empty  grate,  like  a  man  that  has  been 
hanged. 

"For  all  that  has  come  and  gone  yet,  uncle, 
T  wish,  however,  that  you  and  I  should  be  good 
friends.  We  are  blood  relations,  and  we  are 
about  to  be  also  connected,  I  hope  by  mar- 
riage." 

The  livid  lips  strove  to  speak  and  failed,  but 
the  bald  white  head  shook,  piteous  to  behold, 
in  vehement  ]n-otest. 

"  Well,  I  did  not  expect  to  get  your  consent 
at  once.  It  is  the  point,  indeed,  on  which  I 
have  anticipated  a  discussion,  but  I  have  some 
tolerably  convincing  arguments  too.  If  I  had 
not,  this  interview  would  have  ended  long  ago, 
you  know — very  probably,  by  your  kicking  me 
down  stairs." 

The  young  man's  eyes  gleamed  with  malice  ; 
the  recital  of  the  personal  indignity  that  had 
been  put  upon  him  years  ago,  had  driven  all 
pity  from  his  heart ;  it  seemed  to  please  him 
to  picture  to  himself  insults  even  which  had 
never  occurred. 

"  Now,  to  show  you.  Uncle  Crawford,  that 
I  am  not  ignorant  of  the  nature  of  the  ground 
on  which  I  am  about  to  proceed,  let  mc  ask 
you  whether  it  is  not  the  fact  that  a  considera- 
ble portion  of  your  income  dies  with  you,  not- 
withstanding that  you  seem  to  live  on  your 
means  just  as  though  you  were  a  government 
official,  or  a  clergyman,  or,  let  us  say,  a  milita- 


ry or  naval  officer.  Just  so.  This  circum- 
stance, therefore,  made  you  desirous  to  secure 
for  Agnes  a  husband  of  iiide|jendent  proper- 
ty, such  as  .Mr.  Carlyon.  You  need  not  be 
ashamed  of  it,  for  it  was  very  natural.  How- 
ever, that  scheme  has  turned  out  a  failure." 

"  No,  Richard.  He  and  Agnes  love  one  an- 
other." 

"  Excuse  me,  uncle.  It  is  an  immense  pleas- 
ure to  me  to  hear  you  talk  so  tenderly,  to  find 
you  so  easily  aflected,  when  as  you  have  just 
said,  you  are  not  a  sentimental  person  ;  but  let 
us,  above  all  things,  stick  to  facts ;  a  very  fa- 
vorite phrase  of  yours,  and  justly  so ;  since 
facts,  and  especially  unpleasant  ones,  stick  to 
us  like  burrs.  The  truth  is  then,  Agnes  does 
not  love  this  man,  and  will  never  marry  hira. 
If  you  don't  believe  me,  you  can  ask  her  your- 
self, and  she  will  corroborate  what  I  say.  The 
argument  of  a  'previous  engagement'  —  which 
I  foresaw  your  sagacity  would  use — is  therefore 
out  of  the  question.  The  affections  of  your 
daughter  are  free,  and  I,  sir,  am  here  this 
morning  to  propose  myself  as  her  suitor." 

"I  have  heard  you  talk  like  this  before, 
Richard,"  answered  the  old  man,  making  a  great 
effort  to  speak  calmly,  "  and  you  have  already 
had  my  answer.     It  can  not  be." 

"It  shall  be,  Mr.  Crawford,  and  it  must  be," 
returned  the  other,  vehemently.  "You  will 
not  surely  force  me  to  state  that  argument 
which  you  know  lies  in  the  background,  but 
which  may  remain  there  unstated  forever,  if 
you  only  say  '  Yes,'  to  what  I  ask." 

"  Look  here,  Richard,"  appealed  the  old  man, 
slowly.  "  I  do  not  want  to  oflend  you.  I 
would  spare  your  feelings  if  I  could  ;  I  would 
indeed." 

"Thank  you,  uncle.  You  are  always  very 
considerate  in  that  respect — but  I  interrupt  yon." 

"  The  truth  is,  Richard — and  when  I  have 
stated  it,  I  am  sure  you  will  not  press  this  mat- 
ter farther — that  my  daughter,  although  enter- 
taining an  affectionate  regard  for  you  as  her 
cousin,  has  herself  no  wish  to  marry  you.  My 
consent,  therefore,  to  your  union,  even  if  I  gave 
it,  would  benefit  you  nothing.  Agnes  does  not 
love  you." 

"  I  know  it,  uncle." 

"  What,  then,  is  it  possible  you  wish  me  to 
do  violence  to  her  inclinations?" 

"  Tush,  tush.  Like  you,  sir,  I  am  not  a  sen- 
timental person.  If  Mr.  Carlyon  were  in  my 
))lacc,  and  your  daughter  only  had  an  affection- 
ate regard  for  him,  you  would  strive  to  make  it 
ri])en  into  love,  I  think.  You  would  exert  a 
benign  paternal  influence.  That  is  all  I  ask 
of  you  in  my  case." 

"You  are  very  young,  Richard,  and  scarcely 
know  what  you  ask,"  answered  the  other,  per- 
suasively. "  When  you  have  been  this  next 
voyage,  and  are  more  in  a  condition  to  know 
your  own  mind,  then  let  us  talk  this  matter 
over — " 

"Yes,  but  in  the  mean  time,  let  ns  by  all 
means  temporize,  eh  ?"  interrupted  Richard,  an- 


CAKLYON'S  YEAR. 


C5 


grily.  "If  you  are  then  bent  upon  holding 
your  position,  sir,  it  is  necessary  for  nie  to  bring 
up  my  reserve.  I  am  afraid  1  shall  intlict  a  sto- 
ry ujion  you.  If  I  weary  you  beyond  endur- 
ance, or  if  any  portion  of  the  narrative  be  too 
painful  to  be  brought  to  a  conclusion,  you  have 
only  to  say  'Stop'  or  '  Enoui;h,' I  shall  then 
understand  that  farther  recital  is  unnecessary — 
that  I  have  gained  mv  point." 

"  You  are  talking  riddles,"  said  the  old  man 
feebly,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

"If  so,  uncle,  I  think  you  jiosscss  the  key. 
It  is  not  a  riddle  however,  which  I  am  about 
to  narrate,  but  a  biography." 


CHAPTER  XX. 


AN  OLD  MAN  S  SECRET. 


"  Although  I  of  course  remember  nothing 
of  my  infant  life,"  began  Kichard  Crawford; 
"I  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  meet  with  a 
person  who  is  well  acquainted  with  it.  Through 
that  means  I  learn  that  so  soon  as  I  arrived  in 
England,  another  nurse  was  substituted  for  the 
one  in  whose  charge  I  had  come  from  India, 
and  who  would  have  been  certain,  as  I  grew  up, 
to  talk  to  me  of  my  dead  parents,  and  to  inform 
me  of  certain  facts  which  it  was  to  somebody's 
interest  that  I  should  never  know.  All  the 
possessions  which  came  over  with  me,  including 
even  articles  of  garment,  were  destroyed  by  this 
person's  direction.  Nothing  was  left  that  might 
suggest  to  me  in  later  years  of  whom  I  had 
sprung,  except  this  locket." 

"  You  are  weaving  a  romance,  Richard,"  ob- 
seiTcd  the  old  man,  casting  a  careless  glance  at 
what  the  other  held  in  his  hand.  "I  never  to 
ray  knowledge  beheld  that  trinket  before." 

"Perhaps  not,  uncle,  yet  you  recognize  this 
portrait."  Richard  turned  back  the  little  gold- 
en door,  and  showed  the  features  of  a  handsome 
soldier-like  man,  very  like  those  of  Mr.  Craw- 
ford himself,  before  years  and  sorrow  and  ill 
health  had  combined  to  sharpen  them.  "  That's 
my  father,  is  it  not,  sir,  and  your  own  brother?" 

"It  is  very  like  him,"  said  the  old  man, 
thoughtfully.  "Yes,"  added  he,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  "  it  is  certainly  he.  It  is  cu- 
rious enough  that  I  should  have  been  ignorant 
of  the  existence  of  such  a  portrait,  but  I  am 
glad  to  see  it,  however  it  was  obtained.  Poor 
Arthur !" 

"This  likeness,  uncle,  was  taken  just  after 
his  marriage,  and  a  few  days  before  he  sailed 
for  India  for  the  last  time." 

"Somewhere  about  that  period,  as  I  should 
reckon,"  answered  the  old  man,  gazing  upon  his 
face  attentively.  "  This  was  how  he  looked 
when  I  saw  him  last,  newly  married,  happy, 
and  yet  beneath  the  shadow  of  death.  Yes,  it 
must  have  been  near  that  time." 

"It  was  exactly  at  that  time,  uncle.  At  the 
back  of -the  picture  there  is  a  date — and  a 
name .'" 


"It  is  a  lie!"  ejaculated  the  old  man,  shut- 
ting the  locket  close. 

"That  is  not  the  way  to  disprove  it,"  replied 
his  nephew,  coldly.  "  If  you  care  to  do  so,  you 
can  read  tiie  inscrij)tion  for  yourself.  I  was 
afraid  that  there  would  be  portions  of  my  story 
that  must  needs  be  painful  to  you.  This  is 
Chapter  I.  Shall  we  say  '  StO])  ?'  You  are 
not  yet  convinced  ?  It  is  necessaiy  then  to  re- 
sume the  narrative. 

"  I  know  that  you  never  set  a  high  value  up- 
on my  intelligence,  uncle,  and  I  dare  say  you 
are  very  right ;  but  all  children  who  are  not 
idiots,  are  observant,  and  I  possessed  my  full 
share  of  sagacity  so  far.  It  is  not  love  only 
wliich  awakens  interest ;  it  is  sometimes  dis- 
like. Wiiere  we  can  not  be  contciniJtuous,  but 
are  compelled  to  hate,  we  keep  a  narrow  watch 
upon  our  foes.  I  noticed  several  things  con- 
cerning you  in  those  early  days,  and  all  your 
cutfs  did  not  ])ut  them  out  of  my  head.  In  the 
first  place,  instead  of  having  a  home  like  other 
peo))Ie,  we  were  always  moving  liouse.  Wlierev- 
er  we  went  you  feigned  ill-health  (I  could  nev- 
er see  there  was  any  thing  the  matter  with  you) 
and  shunned  society  as  mucli  as  possible.  When 
a  stranger  called  you  shrank  from  him,  as 
though  he  had  come  to  bring  you  some  woful 
news.  I  know  now  that  what  you  feared  was 
recognition. 

"In  the  second  place,  you  entertained  a 
morbid  hatred  of  the  sea,  and  all  belonging  to 
it.  The  reason,  as  I  believe,  which  caused  you 
to  choose  this  house,  independently  of  its  com- 
plete seclusion,  was  that  through  some  whim  of 
him  who  built  it,  no  window  looks  to  seaward. 
The  least  allusion  to  the  naval  calling,  gave  you 
extreme  annoyance.  You  set  yourself  against 
my  fancy  for  embracing  it  with  a  vehemence 
that  was  quite  inexplicable.  And  yet,  notwith- 
standing all  this,  you  exhibited,  when  off  your 
guard,  a  surpi'ising  knowledge  of  nautical  af- 
fairs. This  of  course  I  only  understood  lately, 
since  I  have  myself  become  a  sailor ;  but  it 
struck  me,  even  as  a  boy,  how  strange  it  was 
that  you  should  sleep  in  a  hammock,  and  chew 
tobacco  like  old  Benbow." 

Here  Richard  paused,  as  though  expecting 
either  some  indignant  outbreak,  or  sjiecious  ex- 
planation, but  the  old  man  did  not  speak,  only 
shifted  uneasily  upon  his  chair.  "It  was  not  un- 
til last  year,"  resumed  his  nephew,  "and  when 
I  was  two  thousand  miles  away  from  English 
land,  that  I  came  into  full  possession  of  your 
secret." 

]Mr.  Crawford  groaned. 

"You  are  your  own  tormentor,  uncle,"  ex- 
postulated the  young  man,  pareuthetically, 
"and  compel  me  to  turn  the  rack,  though  I 
have  no  wisli  to  hurt  you.  It  was  on  deck  at 
midnight  in  the  tropic  seas,  that  the  revelation 
was  made  ;  the  comi)anion  of  my  watch  was  a 
far  older  man  than  I,  and  had  seen  much  sail- 
or's service.  He  had  been,  it  was  understood, 
in  the  roval  navy  himself,  but  had  had  to  leave 
it  through  some  breach  of  discipline  ;  yet,  per- 


CARYLONS  YEAR. 


haps,  through  n  desire  to  avert  any  suspicion  of 
such  a  fact — ^.lust  as  some  men  take  an  ojjposite 
course  and  shun  tiic  subject  —  he  was  forever 
talking  of  naval  matters,  and  particularly  of  the 
incidents  of  tliat  great  war,  which  was  finished 
long  before  I  was  born,  but  of  which  yoii,  uncle, 
were  a  contemporary.  Our  talk  turned  upon 
that  matter  on  the  occasion  of  which  I  speak. 
Youngster-like,  I  was  boasting  of  our  national 
prowess,  and  of  the  valor  which  had  ever  dis- 
tinguislied  our  naval  commanders.  I  averred, 
that  in  equal  fight  we  have  never  been  beaten, 
and  tliat  in  no  case  had  any  British  command- 
er disgraced  his  flag.  I  knew,  indeed,  that 
there  was  the  affair  of  Admiral  Byng — " 

"A  most  unjust  and  cruel  sentence,"  inter- 
posed the  old  man,  vehemently ;  "a  wicked 
act  that  has  been  long  repented  of  by  a  mistaken 
country." 

"Just  so,"  observed  the  young  man,  dryly  ; 
"  but  my  companion  spoke  of  other  cases  about 
which  no  such  public  stir  was  made.  Three 
other  British  admirals  were  brought  before 
courts-martial  during  that  long  war,  and  all  for 
cowardice.  Of  these  three,  one  was  acquitted ; 
one  reju-imanded ;  and  the  third — whose  case, 
although  in  some  respects  a  hard  one,  was  by 
far  the  worst,  was  'relieved  of  his  command,' 
— what,  in  the  common  soldier,  is  termed  being 
'drummed  out.'  He  retained  his  pension,  in- 
deed, but  without  his  rank  ;  but,  after  a  little 
time — so  at  least  my  informant  told  me — he 
died,  being  of  a  very  proud  and  haughty  spirit, 
of  a  broken  heart.  I  liave  reason  to  believe, 
however,  that  he  is  still  alive,  leading  a  secluded 
life,  under  a  feigned  name.  His  real  title  (for 
he  had  had  a  knighthood  conferred  upon  him 
for  past  services)  was — I  have  forgotten ;  but 
if  you  will  press  that  locket,  uncle — " 

"  No,  no,"  gasped  the  old  man,  placing  the 
trinket  in  his  own  breast-pocket;  "you  have 
said  enough." 

"  Just  as  you  please,  uncle;  you  have  only 
yourself  to  thank  that  you  have  heard  so  much. 
I  have  said,  'I  have  forgotten,'!  will  add,  that 
I  solemnly  promise  never  to  remember,  or,  at 
all  events,  not  to  use  the  recollection,  if  only 
you,  on  your  part,  accede  to  my  request.  I  do 
not  ask  you  to  bestow  your  daughter,  for  your 
secret's  sake,  on  one  who  will  not  ])rize  the  gift 
at  its  true  value.  I  love  her  with  all  my  soul ; 
I  will  work  for  her,  slave  for  her,  serve  any  pro- 
bation you  may  choose  to  appoint  to  prove  my- 
self worthy  of  her;  but  I  must  have  her  pliglit- 
ed  word,  that  when  that  is  over  she  shall  be 
mine.  I  am  not  unreasonable,  but  I  am  well 
resolved.  Mark  that,  old  man  ;  I  will  have  no 
subterfuge.  From  her  own  lips — not  yours — 
I  must  hear  the  promise.  If  you  refuse  to  use 
your  influence  as  I  have  desired,  or  if  you  play 
me  false,  I  will  not  spare  you.  No  one  in  Mcl- 
lor  but  shall  know  what  a  great  man  is  living 
among  them.  All  your  precautions  of  these 
five  long  years  shall  count  for  notliing;  this 
place  of  peace,  which  you  imagined  you  had 
found  at  last,  remote  from  all  that  knew  you. 


shall  know  you  more  than  any  other.  These 
drones,  your  neighbors,  shall  become  a  nest  of 
hornets ;  the  very  children  in  the  village  street 
shall  jjoint  at  you  ;  and  wherever  you  may  go, 
thinking  to  find  repose,  you  shall  meet  scandal 
and  clamor.  For  a  few  days  you  may  think 
you  have  evaded  me ;  but  rumor,  noising  all 
around,  shall  soon  let  you  feel  that  I  have  fol- 
lowed you,  like  fate." 

As  if  goaded  by  the  very  bitterness  of  his  own 
language,  the  young  man's  passion  rose  almost 
to  madness ;  his  dark  face  glowed  with  lurid 
fire,  and  he  hissed  his  words  out  as  though  his 
tongue  was  yen-  flame. 

"  But  first  of  all,"  he  went  on,  "  your  shame 
shall  be  made  known  to  your  own  household. 
Your  daughter  Agnes,  she  shall  learn  it  first. 
Do  you  hear  me.  Admiral  Sir  Robert  Vane  ?" 

"Yes,  yes  ;  I  hear  you,"  answered  the  other, 
in  hollow  tones.  "I  am  a  very  old  man,  and 
your  own  flesh  and  blood,  sir  ;  but  you  are  not 
merciful.  I  can  not  bear  this  talk  much 
longer." 

And,  indeed,  no  more  cadaverous  and  death- 
like face  was  ever  seen  in  living  man,  than  that 
which  Mr.  Crawford  now  turned  upon  his 
nephew.  It  had  hitherto  been  studiously  avert- 
ed from  him,  and  the  expi-ession  of  it  both 
shocked  and  appalled  the  young  man. 

"I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  sir,"  answered 
he,  with  abated  vehemence;  "and  my  passion 
must  be  my  excuse  if  I  have  been  unnecessarily 
harsh.  I  am  only  afraid  that  you  may  under- 
rate my  fixed  determination — which,  however, 
I  assure  you,  nothing  can  shake ;  that  when  I 
leave  you,  you  will  endeavor  to  persuade  your- 
self that  there  is  some  loophole  by  which  you 
may  escape  my  importunities  ;  or  even,  per- 
haps, that  I  may  not  be  in  possession  of  the 
facts  which  I  have  pressed  upon  your  attention. 
When  I  tell  you,  however,  that  I  have  read  that 
newspaper  slip  which  lies  in  the  secret  drawer 
of  yonder  desk — you  perceive  at  once,  I  see,  how 
idle  in  that  case  must  be  such  expectation. 
Well,  sir,  I  Mill  not  press  you  for  an  answer 
to-day.  I  am  passionate,  but  I  can  also  be  pa- 
tient. I  can  easily  understand  that  this  inter- 
view has  severely  shaken  you.  I  would  rather 
receive  3'Our  promise  of  assistance  when  you  are 
more  like  yourself.  Will  you  give  me  my  an- 
swer to-morrow?" 

The  old  man's  chin  sank  slowly  forward, 
either  from  weakness,  or  in  token  of  assent. 

Richard  chose  to  conclude  it  was  the  latter. 

"  To-morrow,  then,  uncle,  you  will  answer 
me  'yes,'  or  'no.'" 

The  young  man  rose,  cast  one  long,  steady 
glance  upon  his  uncle,  huddled  together  as  be- 
fore, and  with  his  grey  liead  still  resting  upon 
his  breast,  and  softly  left  the  room. 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


67 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


TO-MOIIKOW. 


For  more  than  an  hour  after  his  nc])hc\v  left 
him,  Robert  Crawford  sat  silent,  and  motion- 
less, hc]])lcss  and  prone,  like  a  statue  that  has 
been  thrown  from  its  base.  Then,  feebly  feel- 
ing for  the  locket,  he  drew  it  forth,  and  opened 
it ;  gazing  onee  more  at  the  jiicture,  and  sighing 
wearily,  he  unclasped  it  at  tiic  back,  and  there 
lay  the  inscription  before  him.  "To  Mary 
Caroline,  from  lier  loving  husband,  Arthur 
Vanci"  fiiiJ  ^  ^'I'c  of  more  tiian  a  quarter  of 
a  century  ago. 

"  'Did  I  remember  twenty-six  years  back?' 
said  he,"  murmured  the  old  man.  "  lie  knows 
it  all.  Unnatural,  cruel  boy.  Who  could  have 
given  him  tiiis  ?  His  nurse,  Cubra,  doubtless. 
They  arc  in  league  together,  and  have  undone 
me.  Slie  has  access  to  my  room,  and  has  told 
him  of  w  hat  lies  in  yonder  desk.  I  was  a  mad- 
man to  keep  it  tiiere — to  keep  tiiat  at  all,  the 
sight  of  which  ))ierccd  my  heart.  Has  he  stolen 
it,  I  wonder,  (his  traitor  to  his  own  flesh  and 
blood?"  Very  slowly,  and  supi)orting  himself 
by  table  and  chair,  he  made  his  way  to  the 
standing-desk.  Clearing  away  a  mass  of  papers 
within  it,  he  touched  a  little  spring,  and  out 
darted  a  little  drawer.  In  it  was  a  printed  slip 
— apparently  an  extract  from  some  newspaper — 
and  a  small  colorless  globule.  He  took  out  the 
paper,  and  sat  with  it  awhile  before  him,  like 
one  who  waits  for  breath.  Then  he  unfolded 
it  and  began  to  read.  It  was  headed  in  large 
letters,  "  Trial  of"  Admiral  Sir  Robert  Vane," 
and  contained  the  usual  dry  bald  details  of  a 
naval  court-martial,  beginning  with  the  statute 
under  which  the  accused  was  charged.  ' '  Eveiy 
person  in  the  fleet,  who,  through  cowardice, 
negligence,  or  dissatisfaction,  sliall  in  time  of 
action,  withdraw,  keep  back,  or  not  come  into 
the  fight  or  engagement,  or  shall  not  do  his  ut- 
most to  take  or  destroy  every  ship  which  it  shall 
be  his  duty  to  engage,  and  to  assist  all  and  every 
of  His  Majesty's  ships,  or  those  of  his  allies, 
which  it  shall  be  his  duty  to  assist  or  relieve, 
every  person  so  offending,  and  being  convicted 
thereof  by  the  sentence  of  a  court-martial,  shall 
suffer  death,  or  suck  other  j^unishment  as  the  of- 
fense viaij  dcse7-ve.'' 

The  witnesses  were  admirals  and  captains, 
who  had  acted  under  the  accused  person  in  a 
certain  engagement ;  and  the  point  at  issue  was, 
"Did  or  did  not  Admiral  Sir  Robert  Vane  do 
his  best  to* renew  the  battle  which  had  already 
gone  in  his  favor  ?"  The  w  itnesscs  for  the  pros- 
ecution affirmed  he  did  not ;  tlie  witnesses  for 
the  accused  averred  that  a  renewal  of  the  fight 
was  beyond  Ris  power. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  evidence,  the  admiral 
read  his  defense,  which  began  by  stating  that  he 
had  served  Iiis  country  scven-and-thirty  years, 
during  which  he  had  been  honored  more  than 
once  witji  marks  of  approbation  from  his  sov- 
ereign. The  sentence  was  as  follows:  "The 
court  is  of  opinion  that  the  charge  of  not  having 


I  done  his  utmost  to  renew  the  said  engagement, 
and  to  take  or  destroy  every  ship  of  the  enemy, 

I  has  been  ])roved  against  the  said  Vice-AdmirJil 
yir  Robert  Vane,  and  the  court  doth,  therefore, 
adjudge  him  to  be  dismissed  the  service." 

Party  sitirit  ran  very  high  at  the  time  of  this 
trial,  which  was,  of  course,  instituted  by  the 
government,  and  the  newspaper  in  question, 
being  a  government  one,  bore  very  hardly  upon 
the  acc\iscd.  It  mentioned  the  cases  of  Bvng, 
and  Sir  Robert  Calder,  and  insisted  upon  it  that 
the  present  was  one  far  less  deserving  of  indul- 

I  gence ;  it  hinted,  that  but  for  the  last  line  of 
the  statute  (which  w\as  printed  in  italics)  having 
been  added  in  more  merciful  times,  the  accused 
would  certainly  have  suffered  death.  Every 
imputation  that  malignity  could  suggest  was 
heaped  together  against  the  unfortunate  accused ; 
but  the  charge  of  cowardice — as  being  likely  to 
wound  most  dcejjly — was  reiterated  again  and 

(  again.     This   part  of  the  newspaper,  viz.,  its 

'  comments  on  the  trial,  bore  evidence  of  having 
been  much  oftcncr  handled  tiian  the  account  of 
the  trial  itself.  It  was  over  these  that  the  old 
man  lingered  now,  as  alive  to  every  stal)  as  when 
they  were  first  rained  upon  him,  when  he  stood 
broken  and  disgraced  before  the  world  a  quarter 
of  a  century  ago.  Litera  scripta  manet ;  but, 
how  infinitely  more  terrible  is  the  permanency 
of  that  which  is  jirinted,  since  it  stojis  not  here 
nor  there,  but  is  promulgated  everywhere,  and 
at  the  same  time.  All  England  knew  his  shame 
upon  the  same  day,  and  while  he  read,  the  old 
man  felt  that  all  Enghnd  would  be  as  full  of  it 
to-morrow  as  it  was  in  that  far-back  time.  The 
perusal  of  those  hateful  words  (probably  long 
forgotten  by  him  who  had  written  them)  always 
set  those  wounds  bleeding  afresh  which  time  had 
stanched  ;  but  now,  with  the  menace  of  his 
nephew  ringing  in  his  ears,  the  torture  was  in- 
tolerable. Probably  if  the  unfortunate  admiral 
had  sought  in  the  opposition  journals  only  for 
their  version  of  the  affair,  he  would  have  found 
commiseration,  if  not  comfort,  instead  of  these 
venomous  stings ;  but  he  nourished  the  serpent 
in  his  bosom,  as  a  proud  man  will,  and  it  bit 
very  deep.  If  physical  pain  is  held  to  be  some 
excuse  for  harshness  of  manner  or  ill-temper, 
how  much  more  should  have  been  this  mental 
agony,  the  existence  of  which  was  not  unknown 
to  Richard! 

"A  cruel  boy,  a  cruel,  cruel  boy,"  murmured 
the  old  man,  again  and  again,  as  he  sat  gazing 
on  the  cruel  words.  "He  would  tell  Agnes, 
too.  He  would  not  even  spare  the  girl  that  he 
pretends  to  love.  He  called  me  coward,  too, 
like  this  man  here.  And  if  I  gave  my  daughter 
to  him — if  I  {jcrsuaded  her  to  give  herself — they 
would  speak  truth.  He  shall  never  hold  her  in 
his  power  as  he  now  holds  me.      No  !  No!" 

This  resolution  seemed  to  give  him  strength. 
He  rang  his  bell  and  bade  the  servant  bring  his 
meals  up  thither,  since  he  did  not  feel  well 
enough  to  leave  his  room.  He  busied  himself 
throughout  the  d.ay  in  arranging  certain  papers 
in  his  desk.     In  the  evening,  "  Tell  Miss  Agnes 


CARLYONS  YEAR. 


I  will  sec  her,"  said  he ;  for  even  his  daughter 
never  ventured  to  seek  his  room  unsiunmoncd. 

"You  are  ill,  dear  papa,"  said  slic,  with 
anxious  tenderness,  directly  she  caught  sight  of 
his  weary  face. 

"  No,  love  ;  much  the  same  as  usual.  I  have 
been  arranging  my  affairs,  and  that  has  tired 
me.  You  know  what  a  sad  hand  I  am  at  busi- 
ness." 

"  But  why  not  send  for  me  to  help  you, 
then?" 

"  You  could  not  help  me  in  this  matter, 
Agnes.  No.  You  could  not.  Where  is  Rich- 
ard ?" 

"Like  yourself,  he  is  not  well.  lie  was  not 
at  dinner  ;  he  has  one  of  his  bad  headaches.  I 
am  afraid  you  are  angry  with  him,  dear  papa ; 
and,  indeed,  it  was  very  wrong  of  him  to  come 
up  here.  But  he  is  really  scarce  himself  at 
times,  poor  fellow." 

"You  pity  him,  then  ?" 

' '  Of  course,  papa.  I  fear  he  feels  the  effects 
of  that  sunstroke  still.  He  is  so  very  odd  at 
times." 

"But  you  do  not  love  him  ?  You  still  have 
no  affection  toward  him  deeper  than  a  cousin's  ?" 
You  are  sure  of  that  ?" 

"  Quite  sure." 

"That  is  well,  dear  child."  He  took  her 
little  hand  within  his  own,  and  stroked  it  ten- 
derly. "  You  must  promise  me  tliat  when  I  am 
dead  and  gone  you  will  never  marry  Richard." 

"  Certainly  I  never  shall,  papa  ;  but  why  do 
you  ask  such  a  tiling  ?  I  wish  you  would  let 
me  send  for  Mr.  Carstairs." 

"  No,  dear,  no ;  I  am  as  well  now  as  I  shall 
ever  be.  But  life  to  me  is  worse  than  uncer- 
tain, and  nothing  should  be  put  off." 

They  sat  together  side  by  side,  without  speak- 
ing, and  upon  the  other  side  of  the  old  man, 
unseen  by  her,  sat  Death. 

"  Is  it  true  that  Mr.  Carlyon  has  left  Mellor, 
Agnes  ?" 

"  Yes,  papa." 

"Left  it  'for  good' — I  mean.  Is  it  certain 
that  nothing  would  bring  him  back?" 

The  young  girl  blushed  and  hesitated. 

"You  may  trnst  in  me,  love;  tell  me  all. 
Does  he  not  love  you  ?" 

"  I  can  not  tell ;  I  am  not  sure,  papa." 

"  Do  you  love  liim  ?" 

"I  can  never  marry  him,"  answered  she, 
steadfastly. 

"  Is  it  a  matter  of  religion,  then,  that  sepa- 
rates you  ?" 

"  I  can  not  say  that,  papa.  But  perhaps,  if 
we  thought  alike  respecting  religious  matters — 
but  I  don't  know,  indeed." 

"  Don't  weep,  my  child,  don't  weep.  You 
have,  doubtless,  acted  rightly.  There  is  some- 
thing— what  is  it — in  the  Bible  about  '  choosing 
the  better  part.'  I  do  not  blame  you,  if  I  ever 
did.  It  is  well  to  give  up  all  for  God.  Yes, 
yes,"  here  he  paused  for  a  little,  sighing  heavily; 
then  resumed :  "  You  will  not  be  ])enniloss  when 
I  am  gone,  Agnes ;  there  will  be  more  than  you 


thought  —  that  is,"  added  he,  observing  her 
pained  look,  "more  tlian  others  have  imagined. 
I  know  you  never  think  about  such  matters. 
You  are  a  good  girl ;  and  God  will  never  for- 
sake you.  Kiss  me,  darling.  You  must  go 
now,  for  I  am  getting  tired.  No ;  I  shall  want 
nothing  more  till  morning.  Nothing  more." 
There  was  a  pathos  in  those  last  words  which 
miglit  have  moved  Richard  himself  could  he 
have  heard  them. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear  papa,"  said  Agnes, 
kneeling  down  and  looking  yearningly  into  his 
wan  face. 

"  Tliat  is  right,  darling.  Perhaps  he  will, 
since  it  is  you  who  ask  it.  Good-night,  good- 
night." 

Mr.  Crawford  was  once  more  alone,  except 
for  that  grim  attendant  whom  he  had  himself 
summoned,  before  he  sent  for  his  daughter,  lest 
she  should  persuade  liim  from  his  purpose  to 
her  own  hurt.  He  once  more  sought  his  desk 
and  opened  the  secret  drawer ;  the  little  glob- 
ule was  no  longer  there,  but  oidy  the  newspaper 
slip.  This  he  tore  into  a  hundred  minute  shreds 
and  threw  them  on  the  hearth.  Then  he  took 
out  his  watch. 

"A  few  hours  hence,  and  there  will  be  no 
more  apprehensions,  no  more  disgrace,"  said  he. 
"  To-morrow  he  will  have  his  answer — to-mor- 
row !  To-morrow !  What  will  to-morrow  be 
for  me  ?" 

*****  *         * 

In  the  morning,  when  the  servant  came  to 
call  the  old  man,  he  was  lying  in  his  hammock, 
very  white  and  quiet,  as  usual,  but  witli  a 
ghastlier  look  upon  his  face  than  even  it  had 
ever  worn  before.  The  sentence  of  the  court- 
martial  had  not  been  so  humane  as  the  report 
had  stated.  It  was  death,  although  tlie  execu- 
tion had  been  so  long  deferred.  Tliose  thin 
stern  lips  had  spoken  their  last  words,  but  to  one 
of  those  who,  summoned  by  the  servants'  terri- 
fied clamor,  surrounded  that  strange  death-bed, 
they  still  gave  their  dumb  reply : — 

"  No,  would-be  traitor,  no ! " 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

AT  RICmiOND. 

It  is  autumn,  and  deep  in  autumn  ;  still  all 
"the  quality"  have  not  yet  fled  from  town. 
They  have  abode  within  its  scorching  walls 
through  June  and  July,  amid  the  dust  of  the 
roaring  streets.  They  have  borne  the  burden 
and  heat  of  the  bustling  day,  when  it  lay  in  tlieir 
power  to  enjoy  the  summer  coolness  of  their 
woods  and  streams.  And  now,  though  the  trees 
are  putting  off  their  green,  and  enclosing  them- 
selves in  their  most  glorious  garment  of  all — 
their  Joseph's  coat  of  many  colors — they  still 
delay,  as  their  fathers  did,  who  "preferred  tlie 
smell  of  a  link-boy's  torch  to  all  the  scents  of 
garden  or  field."  It  is  to  be  stated,  ;)er  contra, 
however,   that  these   worshipers    at   Fashion's 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


69 


shrine  have  not  withdrawn  their  patronage  from 
the  country  altogether.  Once  a  week,  or  even, 
during  its  balmy  time,  bi-weekly,  these  idolaters 
have  emerged  from  the  iTiterior  of  their  lirilling 
brazen  bull,  and  sought  tlic  glades  of  Windsor, 
the  banks  of  Greenwich,  or  the  wooded  heights 
of  Riciimond.  And  now,  as  the  latest  period 
of  their  final  departure  draws  nigh,  those  wlio 
have  not  alreaily  fled  congregate  like  migrating 
birds,  and  take  these  swallow  flights  into  the 
country  more  than  ever. 

There  is  a  party  of  such  birds  of  fashion,  the 
females  full-feathered,  and  magnificently  hued, 
the  men  not  so  gorgeous,  yet  with  a  certain 
nicety  of  apparel  quite  as  striking,  gathered  to- 
gether now  at  one  of  those  Richmond  palaces, 
where  you  sit  and  eat  of.the  best  that  art  can 
provide,  while  nature  ministers  of  her  fairest  to 
the  eye.  Tiie  popjnng  of  champagne  corks,  the 
chink  of  glasses,  the  murmur  of  pleasant  talk, 
the  laughter  of  fair  women,  fiow  furtli  from  the 
oi)en  windows  like  streams  of  music  into  the 
sea  of  harmony  without,  where  wood  and  water 
are  vying  with  one  another  in  the  great  Even 
song.  The  birds  are  caroling  from  park  and 
meadow,  whence  uproarious  mirth  and  robust 
ditties  come  mellowed  by  distance ;  and  w^ith 
the  cool  breezes  from  the  river,  are  ui)borne  the 
even  pulses  of  the  oar  and  all  the  cheery  sounds 
of  that  crowded  highway.  Presently,  their  feast 
concluded,  the  revellers  come  forth  into  the  ter- 
raced garden,  and  there  is  not  a  dame  so  churl- 
ish as  to  forbid  her  cavalier  to  light  the  grateful 
weed.  In  twos  and  threes  they  promenade 
upon  the  sloping  lawn,  or  on  the  broad  graveled 
walks,  or  lounge  upon  the  garden  seats,  or  lean 
upon  the  balustrades  and  watch  the  glorious  i)ict- 
ure  that  is  spread  beneath  them  ;  the  river  wind- 
ing slow,  as  though  over-burdened  with  its 
freight  of  home-bound  pleasure-seekers ;  the 
wooded  banks,  and  path-pierced  meadows ;  and 
the  blue  hills  that  close  the  scene. 

Two  of  these  loungers  are  remarkable ;  the 
one  is  a  lady  of  great  beauty,  tall  as  Minerva, 
imperious  as  Juno,  but  ver}*  well  knowing  how 
to  be  tender,  too,  as  you  may  see  by  the  soft 
glances  which  she  casts  ever  an  anon  at  her 
companion,  and  by  the  soft  tones  in  which  she 
addresses  him ;  the  other  is  a  man  near  half  a 
foot  higher  than  the  others  of  his  sex  about  him, 
and  very  powerfully  made. 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  should  be  most  ungrateful 
if  I  was  not  pleased,  Mr.  Carlyon,"  replied  she, 
in  answer  to  some  question  ;  "  so  are  we  all,  I'm 
sure.  I  never  enjoyed  a  day  at  Richmond 
more." 

"That's  well.     I  am  very  glad." 

"You  don't  look  glad,"  returned  she,  in  a 
tone  of  playful  discontent;  "but  then  you  are 
always  melancholy." 

"Am  I?" 

"  Yes."  Her  voice  sank  verj-  low  ;  each  had 
had  a  hand  upon  the  balustrade  a  little  apart ; 
but  now  they  were  touching.  "  If  I  did  not 
know  you  so  well,  Mr.  Carlyon — you  smile,  but 
you  are  more  easily  read  than  you  imagine — I 


should  say  that  it  was  the  day's  closing  scene, 
the  influence  of  the  evening — " 

"That's  you,"  interru])tcd  Carlyon,  smiling. 

"Tush,  nonsense,"  continued  she,  pressing 
his  hand  reprovingly;  "  if  I  had  any  jiower  over 
you,  I  should  make  you  cheerful,  hajipy.  I 
don't  like  to  see  my  friends — persons  I  have  a 
genuine  regard  for — so  hijijicd  and  serious. 
You  are  worse  than  ever  to-night.  One  would 
tliink  you  were  frightened  by  that  foolisii  Cap- 
tain Plashcr's  remark  about  our  being  thirteen 
at  dinner,  and  how  that  one  of  us  would  die 
within  the  year." 

"Yes;  but  your  mother  put  him  right,  yon 
know  ;  she  said  that  the  jiroverb  ran  '  would  die 
or  else  would  marry.'  Marriage  is  better  than 
death,  is  it  not,  Edith?" 

"  M^ell,  really,  that  depends.  What  a  disa- 
greeable man  that  is  to  haunt  us  in  that 
manner." 

Carlyon  turned  sharjily  round,  only  in  time 
to  see  a  young  man  sauntering  slowly  away  with 
a  cigar  in  his  mouth. 

"Never  mind,"  continued  she;  "he  is  gone 
now :  oh !  pray  don't  meddle  with  him  ;  I  do 
hate  a  scene." 

"He  is  indebted  to  you  for  a  whole  skin," 
rejoined  Carlyon,  quietly.  "  If  I  have  a  preju- 
dice it  is  against  eavesdropping.  At  the  same 
time,  the  poor  wretch  is  not  without  an  excuse. 
Where  Edith  Treherne  is,  there  is  always  a 
temptation  to  draw  nigh." 

"Now  you  talk  nonsense;  what  a  wayward 
will  you  have,  to  be  so  serious  when  others  are 
enjoying  themselves,  aud  to  jest,  when  you  ought 
to — be — that  is — but  here's  mamma." 

A  stately  dame  bore  down  upon  them  at  this 
critical  juncture. 

"  Dearest  Edith,  it  is  getting  late,  and  I  have 
ordered  the  carriage.  My  dear  Mr.  Carlyon, 
we  have  a  scat  to  offer  you." 

"But  not  to  ofler  Red  Berild,  I  conclude," 
returned  he,  smiling;  "thank  you  very  much, 
but  I  ride  home.  ]\Iust  you  go  so  soon,  Mrs. 
Treherne  ?  When  you  and  yours  leave  us  the 
party  is  broken  np  indeed." 

"You  are  engaged,  however,  to  dine  with  us 
to-morrow,  remember,  Mr.  Carlyon ;  although 
it  will  be  a  bathos  after  your  charming  treat  of 
to-day  I'm  sure.  In  five  minutes  we  shall  start, 
Edith  ;  indeed,  directly  I  have  found  Julia.  I 
can't  think  where  that  little  puss  has  got  to." 

Mrs.  Treherne  could  make  a  very  tolerable 
guess  however,  for  she  had  a  sharp  eye  for  both 
daughters'  movements;  if  a  glance  of  that  organ 
ever  expressed  "make  the  most  of  your  time," 
it  did  so,  when  she  parted  with  her  eldest  hope 
in  professed  pursuit  of  hor  second-born. 

"Tiien  you  won't  come  home  with  us?"  mur- 
mured the  beauty,  jilaintively.  "I  do  think 
you  like  that  horse  of  yours  better  than — "  she 
hesitated,  then  concluded  her  sentence  with 
"mamma." 

"W^ell  ically,  my  dear  Miss  Treherne.  I 
never  should  have  ventured  upon  comjiaring  their 
relative    merits,"   answered  Carlyon,   smiling. 


GO 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


"But  you  must  allow  that  Red  Berikl  is  more 
devoted  to  me  than  your  lady  mother  is.  That 
goes  for  a  great  deal  you  know." 

"  People  don't  always  know  how  much  they 
arc  esteemed,  Mr.  Carlyon." 

"Do  you  tliink  so?"  returned  the  other, 
musini;;.  "That  is  not  the  case  with  love, 
however,  is  it  ?  If  a  women  sincerely  loves  a 
man  he  always  sees  it,  does  he  not?" 

"I  think  so;  that  is,  unless  he  is  willfully 
blin.l." 

"  You  are  right,  Miss  Treherne,  as  usual." 

"  What  makes  you  sigh,  Mr.  Carlyon  ?" 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  long  story,  and  our  time  is 
short.  Ask  me  any  question  but  that  and  I  will 
answer  you." 

"Good,"  returned  the  girl,  fixing  her  fine 
eyes  upon  his  own,  "what  is  it  then  that  you 
always  carry  in  your  breast-pocket  ?  We  have 
often  laughed — at  least,  spoken  of  it,  at  home  ; 
it  is  too  large  for  a  note-book,  or  a  miniature ; 
what  is  it  ?" 

"I  did  not  give  you  credit  for  so  much  curi- 
osity about  me.  Miss  Treherne.  Here  is  tlie 
subject  of  your  wonder  :  a  plain  book  in  a  plain 
binding." 

"  Why,  it  is  the  New  Testament !"  ejaculated 
tlie  young  lady. 

"Ought  it  then  to  have  been  the  Old  one?" 
returned  Carlyon,  coldly. 

"No,  of  course  not.  But,  excuse  me,  I  was 
a  little  surjirised  at  your  carrying  about  with 
you  such  a  book  at  all.  Cousin  Archibald, 
wliom  you  met  at  the  club,  told  us — at  least, 
we  had  the  impression — " 

"That  I  was  an  infidel,"  interposed  Cai'lyon, 
quietly.      "AVell,  so  I  am." 

"How  shocking!"  returned  the  beauty. 
"  How  very  naughty  of  you."  And  she  tapped 
him  lightly  on  the  arm  with  her  lace-fringed 
parasol.  "  You  must  have  been  in  very  bad 
hands,  sir,  when  you  were  young.  That  is,  I 
mean  when  you  were  a  boy.  I  will  ask  my  un- 
cle the  dean  to  give  you  a  talking  to." 

"Your  uncle  the  dean!"  Carlyon  burst 
into  such  laughter  as  quite  astonished  some 
neighboring  knots  of  well-bred  folk. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  laugh,  al- 
thougli  it  need  not  have  been  quite  so  loud," 
said  she,  smiling.  "Now — for  I  am  still  curious 
— let  me  have  the  book  to  hold.     Will  you  ?" 

Carlyon  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  put 
the  volume  into  her  dainty  hand. 

"  Why,  there's  notliing  in  it !"  said  she ;  "  ab- 
solutely nothing." 

"  That  is  not  your  uncle's  view,  Miss  Edith." 

"I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  that  there  is 
no  name,  Mr.  Carlyon,"  returned  she,  gravely; 
' '  tlie  titlc-])age  is  blank.     Who  gave  it  to  you  ?" 

"I  did  not  promise  to  tell  you  all  my  secrets. 
Miss  Treherne.  But  why  do  you  ask?  Does 
it  look  like  a  /yw/e  d'awour — this  book  ?" 

"  Well,  no,"  answered  she,  doubtfully ; 
"though  some  girls  give  very  funny  things  for 
keejjsakes.  But  there,  I  dare  say  you  have 
quite  a  collection  of  such." 


"Not  I,  indeed.  Miss  Treherne.  No  girl 
cares  for  me  ;  and  for  the  matter  of  that,  no 
human  creature — only  Eerild." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Mr.  Carlyon,"  returned  she, 
softly.  "  I  am  sure  that  1 — that  is,  mamma 
and  I — care. for  you  very,  very  much.  She  is 
beckoning  to  us  yonder.  Won't  you  take  our 
vacant  seat?  won't  you?" 

"Not  this  evening,  Edith — "he  drew  her 
fingers  on  to  his  arm  and  led  her  away — "how 
your  hand  trembles!  The  air  is  getting  chill ; 
I  shall  never  forgive  myself  if  you  have  caught 
cold." 

"I  am  not  chilly,  thank  you,  dear  Mr.  Car- 
lyon," murmured  she,  tenderly.  ' '  We  shall  see 
you  to-morrow."  Then,  in  her  usual  cold  and 
cynical  tone  she  added,  "Mr.  Carlyon  will  not 
go  home  with  us,  mamma.  He  prefers  his 
horse,  as  usual,  to  our  company,  or  that  of  any 
one  else." 

A  few-  minutes  more  of  handshakings  and 
conventional  expressions  of  good-will,  and  all 
Carlyon's  guests,  in  roomy  chariots  and  snug 
brougliams,  had  rolled  away.  It  was  felt  tliat 
it  was  a  bathos  to  remain  after  lovely  Edith 
Treherne  and  her  scarcely  less  beautiful  sister 
had  dc]jarted. 

Carlyon  had  known  Edith  three  years  before 
as  the  belle  of  the  London  season  ;  her  jilacc 
had  been  usurjird  by  others,  younger,  if  not 
lovelier  than  herself,  and  perhaps  her  mother 
looked  upon  an  untitled  country  gentleman  with 
some  two  thousand  a  year  in  land  with  more  fa- 
vorable eyes  than  heretofore.  At  all  events, 
Mrs.  Treherne,  having  satisfied  hei'self  that  his 
melancholy  did  not  proceed  from  jjecuniary 
losses,  had  welcomed  him  to  town  with  unex- 
pected kindness  and  hospitality.  He  knew  but 
few-  families  in  London,  and  in  those  few  weeks 
had  grown  proportionably  intimate  w-ith  this 
good  ladj'  and  her  daughters,  and  those  who 
were  introduced  to  him  through  their  means. 

His  guests  to-day  had  been  almost  all  friends 
of  the  Trchernes  ;  and  it  was  understood  among 
them  that  a  match  between  Edith  and  himself 
was  by  no  means  an  improbable  event.  Still, 
the  cautious  mother  had  dropped  no  word  of  it 
to  any  of  them  ;  on  the  contrary,  had  express- 
ed her  opinion  that  Mr.  Carlyon  was  so  strange 
a  person — so  very  "peculiar  in  his  views,"  too, 
that  it  was  hardly  likely  that  any  girl  should 
take  a  fancy  to  him.  Her  friends,  of  course, 
translated  this  to  mean  that  Carlyon  was  a  diffi- 
cult fish  to  hook  ;  but  she  did  not  mind  that 
one  pin.  She  could'nt  help  people  "talking," 
but  she  would  not  permit  of  the  existence  of  a 
peg,  upon  which  they  might  hang  the  scandal 
that  her  Edith  had  been  jilted.  She  loved  her 
daughter — this  practical,  worldly  old  lady — 
after  her  own  fashion,  very  dearly;  but  she  had 
no  intention  that  she  should  be  the  bride  of 
Heaven  until,  at  least,  all  hope  was  over  of 
earthly  suitors. 

Although,  as  we  have  said,  knowing  but  few 
families  in  town,  Carlyon  had  a  pretty  large 
male   acquaintance,  chiefly  men  from  his  own 


CARLTON'S  YEAR. 


61 


county.  These  men  were  not  school  or  college 
tVienils  ;  his  mother's  love  had  prcchuleil  his  go- 
ing to  !i  jnihlic-school  ;  she  could  not  bear  to 
jmrt  for  any  length  of  time  with  the  only  being 
to  whom  she  could  cling,  and  so  he  had  been 
sent  to  a  small  seminary  in  the  neigiiborhood  of 
home.  His  father's  selfishness  had  refused  the 
exi)cnscs  of  a  univci-sity  education.  Tlicse 
men  were,  therefore,  mainly  acquaintances  of 
the  liunting  field.  They  all  liked  him,  and 
were  glad  to  sec  him  in  town ;  their  prejudices 
upon  the  score  of  iiis  opinions  were  not  valid 
there;  London  society  is  very  charitable,  and 
"  tiie  clubs"  have  open  arms  for  every  one  who 
doesn't  cheat  at  cards.  The  conversation  that 
sometimes  —  once  in  a  year,  perha])S  —  turns 
upon  sjjiritual  matters  in  the  "  smoking-room'' 
(generally  late  at  night.)  exhibits  religious  lib- 
erty upon  its  broadest  ground.  If  an  honest 
country  parson  could  only  be  smuggled  in  qui- 
etly to  listen  to  it,  how  it  would  ojjen  his  eyes ; 
not  so  mucli  in  horror,  but  in  astonisiimcnt. 
Between  him  and  the  man  of  the  world  there  is 
a  great  gnlf  fixed,  not  of  fire,  but  of  ice  ;  each 
makes  believe  that  it  will  bear — that  commu- 
nication is,  in  fact,  established  ;  but  ncitlicr 
ventures  to  cross.  It  is  not  to  be  expected 
that  the  latter  will  budge  a  step  ;  if  they  are 
ever  to  meet,  it  is  the  business  of  the  Royal 
(and  Ecclesiastical)  Humane  Society's  man  to 
make  the  attempt. 

Well,  Carlyon's  club  was  glad  to  see  its 
country  member;  the  sporting  set  (with  whom 
lie  was  best  acquainted)  introduced  him  to  the 
fast  set.  He  saw  a  good  deal  of  what  unphilo- 
sophic  persons  call  "Life,"  in  a  little  time, 
lie  had  seen  it  before,  of  course.  All  English- 
men of  good  means  do  see  it,  sooner  or  later. 
Really  moi"al  men,  whether  philosophers  or  oth- 
erwise, are  as  rare  as  respectable  folks  are 
])lentiful.  The  Josephs  are  few,  the  Joseph  Sur- 
faces many.  Some  say  the  former  are  not  to  be 
found  at  all,  which  seems  to  have  been  the  view 
of  some  wise  and  very  good  teachers,  such  as 
Jeremy  Taylor.  But  it  is  only  the  heartless, 
the  sinners  in  cold  blood,  who  pursue  dissipa- 
tion for  any  great  length  of  time  ;  passionless 
vice  is  the  longest  lived  of  all.  Carlyon  had 
never  been  a  debauchee  in  his  youth,  and  li- 
cense had  no  gi'eater  charms  for  him  in  his  mid- 
dle age.  Still,  he  wished  to  escape  from  him- 
self, and  was  in  no  wise  particular  about  the 
means.  He  never  gambled,  however.  There 
was  very  high  play  among  some  of  the  men  he 
knew,  and  there  is  nothing  that  offers  so  strong 
a  temi>tation  to  one  that  would  forget  both  the 
past  and  the  future  as  high  play  ;  but  he  never 
touched  dice  or  cards.  If  he  lost,  would  he  not 
be  robliing  her  to  whom  he  had  left  all  he  had  ? 

Thus  time  went  on  with  John  Carlyon,  among 
bis  new  friends — for  almost  all  were  new,  ex- 
cept Red  Berild,  ,who  was  stabled  near  to  his 
own  lodgings  in  the  Albany — much  as  it  goes 
on  with  many  a  man  who  has  a  month's  holiday 
to  spend  in  London  ;  only  Carlyon  had  already 
spent  two  months  there,  and  (so  it  seemed  to 


him)  liad  ten  months  yet  to  spend.  lie  scarcely 
noted  time,  save  by  its  loss.  Another  week 
gone,  or  a  day,  such  as  he  would  never  see 
again,  was  his  occasional  reflection.  Without 
Ijopc  or  fear  as  to  the  future,  the  material  ap- 
jn-oximation  to  his  life's  end  made  itself  felt 
within  iiim.  By  nature  a  very  unselfish  man — 
as  men  go— liis  mind,  like  a  bent  sajiling,  still 
obstinately  reverted  to  himself,  notwithstanding 
tiuit  he  strove  to  bind  it  to  other  things.  We 
may,  and  often  do,  love  others  better  than  our- 
selves as  Carlyon  certainly  did ;  we  may  even 
merge  ourselves  in  them,  and  lose  our  very 
identity  therein  for  a  season ;  but,  after  all, 
there  is  nothing  that  interests  a  poor  human 
creature  so  unintermittingly  and  for  such  long 
continuance  as  his  own  self.  Carlyon  often 
caught  himself  musing,  not,  indeed,  exactly 
ujjon  his  own  fate,  as  ujion  what  would  hajipen 
in  the  world  in  relation  to  him  after  he  was 
gone.  He  smiled  bitterly  to  think  what  sister 
Meg  would  have  to  say  about  him  when  the 
contents  of  his  Mill  were  made  known,  and  how 
Jedediah  would  run  through  that  paltry  five 
hundred  pounds,  and  never  fill  a  glass  to  his 
tincle's  memory.  If  these  relatives  had  really 
stood  in  need  of  his  money,  he  would  certainly 
not  have  disposed  of  it  as  he  had  done.  As  it 
was,  how  good  a  use  would  Agnes  make  of  it ! 
There  was  no  fear,  too,  of  wealth  sjioiling  her. 
And  yet  it  would  give  her  pleasure,  since  it 
would  afford  her  larger  opportunities  of  doing 
good. 

He  could  not,  however,  strive  to  i)lease  her  in 
that  whicli  he  knew  would  have  made  her  happi- 
est. Her  own  apprehensions  with  regard  to  that 
parting  gift  of  hers  had  been  fulfilled  ;  he  regard- 
ed the  little  volume  she  had  sent  him,  so  rever- 
ently, for  her  sake,  that  he  almost  always  carded 
it  about  with  him  ;  but  he  would  have  preferred 
it  to  have  been  any  other  book.  On  its  own 
account  it  was  unwelcome  and  even  repulsive, 
for  he  saw  in  it  the  material  bar  which  had  kept 
him  and  her  asunder.  It  Mas  terrible  to  him 
to  think  of  that.  Hopeless  as  his  love  for  her 
M'as,  the  thought  of  death  M'as  hideous,  inas- 
much as  it  must  needs  sejiaratc  them  forever. 
In  other  respects,  the  contemjdation  of  it  was 
more  curious  than  painful.  The  notices  of  mat- 
ters to  take  place  at  a  far-distant  date,  M-hen  he 
should  no  longer  be  above  the  earth  but  imder 
it,  affected  him  sharply ;  even  a  friend's  casual 
mention  of  some  plans  for  the  ensuing  summer 
Mould  overcast  his  brow.  That  he  had  never 
felt  himself  stronger,  or  in  more  excellent  health, 
only  intensified  the  strangeness  of  all  this.  Such 
feelings,  although  frequent,  M-cre  hoM-ever,  evan- 
escent enough.  His  life,  as  has  been  said, 
M-ent  on  much  like  any  other  idle  man's.  He 
lounged,  and  rode,  and  read,  in  his  usual  desul- 
tory May  ;  he  feasted,  nay,  he  flirted  willingly, 
though  aimlessly  enough,  Mith  the  beautifid 
Edith.  Hers  Mas  a  heart  not  easily  to  be 
broken,  and  there  M-as  scarcely  any  body  but 
liimself  now  left  in  toMU  for  the  poor  girl  to 
practice  upon.     Why  should  not  she  be  gratifi- 


C2 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


ed  with  the  idea  that  he  was  being  enthralled? 
She  certainly  did  not  love  him  ;  and  when  he 
was  dead,  if  the  rumor  of  there  luiving  been  any 
tendrcssc  between  them  should  get  abroad,  it 
would  only  make  her  tlic  more  interesting.  lie 
would  take  care  that  matters  should  never  go 
so  far  as  to  comi)el  her  to  jiut  on  mourning, 
which  she  had  confided  to  him  did  not  become 
her.  She  enjoyed  those  little  dinners  at  Rich- 
mond immensely,  and  so  did  he,  did  he  not  ? 
Well,  asking  himself  this  question,  as  he  strode 
np  and  down  the  broad  graveled  terrace  after 
Iiis  guests  were  gone,  he  could  scarcely  answer, 
"Yes."  Through  most  of  his  life  he  had  been  ac- 
customed to  be  alone,  but  he  had  never  felt  so  sol- 
itary, so  friendless,  so  desolate,  as  now,  with  the 
congratulations  and  compliments  of  those  fair- 
weather  friends  ringing  in  his  ears,  and  the  soft 
breathings  of  that  lovely  girl  warm  upon  his  cheek. 

Why  had  she  insisted  upon  bringing  forth  the 
skeleton  of  his  closet,  demanding,  like  some 
foolish  princess  in  a  fairj'  tale,  the  keys  of  his 
secret  chamber,  when  lie  had  only  wished  to 
give  her  the  best  of  what  he  had?  Why  had  he 
let  her  take  that  precious  book  within  her  hand  ; 
she — with  her  "  How  shocking  !"  and  "What 
a  naughty  man  to  be  an  Infidel!"  — was  it  not 
sacrilege  to  let  her  do  it  ?  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  who  was  he,  to  play  fast  and  loose  with 
this  poor  girl,  as  though  his  fellow-creatures 
were  his  puppets  ?  Was  his  life,  just  because  it 
was  fated  to  be  a  short  one,  to  swallow  up  all 
others  while  it  lasted,  and  make  them  of  no  con- 
sequence? Was  not  his  morbid  mind  compel- 
ling him  to  selfish  and  unworthy  acts,  which 
threatened  to  leave  behind  him  an  evil  memo- 
ry ?  It  was  surely  worth  while  to  look  to  that 
if  to  nothing  else  ! 

Thus  perturbed  in  mind,  the  doomed  man 
strode  up  and  down  the  hotel  garden,  amid  the 
thinning  groups  of  pleasure-seekers,  each  with 
their  hidden  care,  but  none  with  one  so  hea^'y 
as  his  own,  or,  at  least,  which  sat  so  heavily. 
Their  light  talk  and  easily  moved  mirth  jarred 
upon  his  ear,  and  he  descended  to  a  lower  ter- 
race, from  whence  could  still  be  seen  the  wind- 
ing river,  now  silent  and  pale  in  the  moonliglit, 
and  the  sleeping  fields  curtained  with  silver 
mist  ;  and  after  him,  like  his  shadow  moved  the 
man  that  had  aroused  Edith's  wrath  awhile  ago, 
by  hovering  near  them. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE   doctor's    difficulty. 

Although  poor  Mr.  Crawford  had  been 
found  in  his  hammock  cold  as  a  stone  in  a 
sling,  Mr.  Carstairs  had  at  once  been  sent  for  ; 
and  notwithstanding  that  he  knew  his  profes- 
sional services  were  not  needed,  the  good- 
natured  little  man  had  hurried  to  Greycrags, 
for  the  sake  of  her  whom  the  dead  man  had 
left  alone  in  the  world.  Of  course  his  first 
visit  was  i)aid  to  the  cliamber  of  death.     The 


servants,  weeping  from  the  sudden  strangeness 
of  the  event  rather  than  from  sorrow,  unless, 
perhaps,  some  of  them  were  touched  for  their 
young  mistress's  sake,  ^vcre  directed  to  retire — 
excejjt  Cubra,  who  had  been  so  long  the  okl 
man's  confidential  attendant — and  the  doctor 
stood  by  the  dead  man's  side  alone.  Ther( 
lay  the  fellow-creature  who  had  been  his  host 
but  lately,  and  his  patient  for  some  trifling  ail- 
ment only  two  days  before.  He  had  been  an 
old  man,  it  was  true  ;  but  he  had  had  no  im- 
mediate warning  of  this  fate;  the  gaunt  form 
was  wan  and  thin  enough,  but  so  it  had  always 
been  since  Jlr.  Carstairs  had  known  him. 
There  was  nothirg  to  account  for  so  sudden  a 
failure  of  the  vital  powers. 

"Poor  old  man  !"  That  was  the  only  piece 
of  sentiment  in  which  the  little  doctor,  accus- 
tomed to  see  death  claim  the  aged,  ])ermitted 
himself  to  indulge.  He  was  musing  upon 
what  he  should  say  to  the  unhapjjy  giil  that 
was  awaiting  him  below ;  what  scheme  hi 
should  propose  to  her  for  her  future  life,  for  lu 
felt  that  he  was  the  only  counsellor  she  had. 
when  something  about  the  lips  of  the  cor])se  at- 
tracted his  attention. 

"Draw  the  curtain  still  more  back,  Cubra,  ' 
said  he,  hastily.  "  Give  me  all  the  light  you 
can." 

He  bent  over  the  dead  man's  face — already 
like  the  work  of  a  sculptor's  chisel — and  then 
drew  back,  with  something  like  horror  depicted 
on  his  own. 

Any  one  who  had  been  looking  in  at  that 
bedroom  window  would  also  have  shrunk 
aghast  from  another  face — that  of  Cubra  her- 
self, who  was  staring  forth  upon  the  lawn  with- 
out, with  cheeks  of  leaden  hue,  and  eyes  roll- 
ing in  their  sockets. 

"  Do  you  hear  me,  Cubra?  more  light,'"  re- 
iterated the  doctor. 

"  Yes,  Massa  Carstairs ;"  she  obeyed  his 
mandate,  yet  did  not  turn  her  gaze  toward 
him  ;  but  her  ears  were  strained  to  catch  his 
every  word  and  movement. 

"  How  strange," he  murmured.  Then,  pass- 
ing to  the  mantel-piece,  whereon  stood  a  couple 
of  bottles,  he  took  out  their  corks  and  smelled  at 
their  contents.  They  were  both  from  his  own 
dispensary. 

"  Cubra, "said  he  carelessly,  "  did  your  poor 
master  take  any  otlier  medicines  than  those  I 
used  to  send  him  ?" 

"Never,  Massa  Carstairs,  never.  Poor 
massa  never  liked  medicine." 

"  Now,  look  at  me,  Cubra  ;  you  knew  your 
master's  ways  better  than  any  body.  Are  yon 
quite  sure  that  he  did  not  keep  by  him,  in  his 
desk,  or  in  a  drawer,  any  thing  to  stop  pain — 
he  suffered  from  toothache,  you  know,  for  in- 
stance— now,  try  and  recollect ;  was  tliere  no 
box  or  bottle  from  which  he  used  to  take  some- 
thing to  relieve  it  ?" 

Cubra  shook  her  head.  "No;  she  was 
'certain  sure' such  was  not  the  case.  Massa 
did  not  mind  pain  like  other  folks." 


CARLTON'S  YEAR. 


63 


Mr.  Carstairs  knew  that  this  was  true  ;  for 
the  old  man,  although  it  was  his  whim  to  be 
considered  more  of  an  invalid  than  he  really 
was,  had  been  a  very  stoic  with  respect  to  phys- 
ical pain. 

Mr.  Robert  Augustus  Carstairs,  F.R.C.S., 
had  his  weak  i)rofessional  side — a  tendency  not 
uncommon  among  the  faculty  to  assign  all  ail- 
ments to  one  particular  disease,  and  to  exag- 
gerate the  effects  thereof — but  he  was  both  a 
sagacious  and  a  scientific  man.  Affecting  to 
be  convinced  by  Cubra's  rejdies,  he  determined 
to  ask  a  question  or  two  elsewhere  respecting 
the  matter  which  had  so  much  moved  him.  It 
was  impossible  to  get  any  information  out  of 
this  black  domestic.  She  was  fiiithful,  no 
doubt,  and  it  was  to  be  ho])ed  to  a  greater  de- 
gree "than  any  white  woman,  for  she  was  cer- 
tainly far  stupider.  If  the  late  Mr.  Crawford 
had  really  kept  secreted  about  him  any  such 
thing  as  he  (the  doctor)  susjiccted,  it  was  in  the 
highest  degree  unlikely  that  Cuhra  should  have 
been  made  his  confidant.  Mr.  Carstairs  de- 
scended to  the  drawing-room,  where  he  found 
poor  Agnes  alone.  She  was  very  sad  and 
pale ;  but  her  tears  were  not  falling  now.  She 
had  been  praying  to  One  who  wipes  tears  away 
from  all  eyes,  and  had  found  present  comfort. 
Good  people,  as  a  rule  (with  the  exception  of 
utterly  heartless  folks)  weep  least  when  Heaven 
takes  away  those  nearest  to  them.  She  could 
not  trust  herself  to  speak  much  ;  but  she  had 
ears  to  hear  all  that  was  necessary  to  be  said. 

The  little  doctor  took  her  hand  in  his  with 
fatherly  tenderness,  and  addressed  to  her  a  few 
unconventional  words  of  sympathy.  "Can  I 
see  your  cousin,  dear  Miss  Agnes?"  inquired 
he;  "for  it  must  rest  with  him,  of  course, 
to  aiTange — " 

"No,"  replied  she,  shaking  her  head. 
"Richard  is  quite  unable  for  such  a  task.  I 
never  saw  him  so  utterly  unners'ed  as  when — " 
Here  she  broke  down  a  little  ;  then  resumed, 
"  No,  my  dear  Mr.  Carstairs,  I  must  trust 
wholly  to  your  kindness  in  this  matter." 

"I  am  sorry,"  mused  the  doctor;  "not," 
added  he,  hastily,  "that  I  grudge  either  time 
or  trouble  in  such  a  service,  my  dear  young 
lady,  but  because  I  had  certain  questions  to 
ask  of  him — mere  matters  of  form  it  is  true — 
but  which  must  be  more  or  less  distressing  to  a 
daughter,  respecting  your  poor  father's  death." 
She  bowed  her  head  in  sign  of  her  willing- 
ness to  hear  him. 

"Did  Mr.  Crawford  suffer,  to  your  know- 
ledge, from  any  chronic,  or  other  pain,  such  as 
might  have  induced  him  to  take  opiates — or 
even  stronger  palliatives  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.     I  should  say  that  my  poor 

dear   father — considering    his    great    age — was 

signally  free   from  such  maladies.     He  never 

had  even  so  much  as  an  attack  of  rheumatism." 

"He  suffered,  however,  much  at  times,  did 

he  not,  from  depression  of  spirits  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Was  that   depression  hypochondriacal,    or 


resulting  from  some  snflRcicnt  cause ;  I  do  not 
of  course  seek  to  pry  into  the  nature  of  it,  but 
was  there  a  cause?" 

"  There  was." 

"Was  that  cause  likely  to  have  increased 
with  years,  or  to  have  diminished  ?  ' 

"To  have  diminished." 

At  this  Mr.  Car^tairs  looked  sharply  up  into 
the  grave  young  face  ;  but  nothing  save  truth 
was  to  be  read  therein. 

"  There  was  no  immediate  apprehension, 
then,  hanging  over  your  fiither,  such  as,  com- 
bined with  this  depression,  or  independent  of 
it,  might  have  affected  his  reason?" 

"Oh,  sir,  he  spoke  to  me  last  night — as 
wisely,  kindly — "  here  she  hesitated  ;  "  we  had 
a  long  talk  together,  and  little  did  I  imagine 
that  it  was  to  be  the  last  between  us." 

"  Forgive  me  the  jiain  I  see  I  am  inflicting, 
dear  Miss  Agnes,  but,  during  that  conversation 
did  he  mention  nothing  of  importance  which 
was  also  novel,  and  such  as  dwelling  ujjon  a 
mind  already  enfeebled,  might  go  far  even  to 
overthrow  it." 

"We  spoke  of  an  important  matter,  but  it 
was  one  on  which  we  had  talked  before.  There 
were  no  secrets — none — between  myself  and 
him." 

"  Did  you  agree  on  that  in  which  you  talked, 
or  was  there  a  difference  of  opinion  ?" 

"  We  agreed." 

"Nothing  then  has  taken  place,  to  your 
knowledge,  since  I  saw  your  father  last,  to  give 
him  any  sudden  mental  shock  ?" 

"No." 

"  Nothing  to  disturb  or  distress  him?" 

"Richard  had  an  interview  with  him  yester- 
day morning ;  I  su];pose,  about  my  cousin's 
going  to  sea.  They  were  not  on  such  good 
terras  with  one  another  as  I  could  have  wished 
— as  I  wish  now  more  than  ever.  But  mj 
father  was  never  put  out  by  any  disagreement 
with  Richard,  and  he  did  not  even  mention 
that  there  had  been  such  when  I  talked  with 
him  in  the  evening." 

"  And  is  Mr.  Richard  absolutely  too  ill  to 
see  me?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Carstairs.  I  am  very  anxious 
about  my  cousin.  At  times — and  particularly 
of  late — I  have  almost  thought  that  he  has  not 
entirely  recovered  from  that  sunstroke  which 
he  received  when  upon  the  coast  of  Africa. 
I  am  not  alarmed,  except  for  himself,  you  will 
understand, "  added  she,  hastily,  perceiving  the 
doctor's  grave  looks,  "  but  I  do  think  his  posi- 
tion precarious." 

"  What  you  have  told  me,  my  dear  Miss 
Agnes,  is  only  one  more  reason  added  to  those 
which  have  already  occured  to  me,  why  you 
should  not  remain  at  Grcycrags." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Carstairs;  could  I  leave  him?" 
cried  she,  with  a  piteous  glance  in  the  direction 
of  her  father's  room. 

"You  can  be  of  no  use  to  him  more,  dear 
girl.  You  will,  of  course  attend  the  funeral 
if  you  feel  it  well  to  do  so  ;  but,  in  the  mean 


G4 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


time  yon  .shoulil  not  be  here.  I  have  already 
secured  you  rooms  at  Widow  Marcon's,  at  the 
Brae  Cottage,  if  you  will  consent  to  remove 
thither.  She  is  a  good  motherly  ])erson,  and 
has  herself  experienced  a  recent  sorrow  that 
will  make  her  sympathize  with  yours.  With 
your  cousin  in  sucli  a  state  as  you  describe- 
independently  of  other  very  valid  reasons- 
it  is  only  ri>;ht,  nay,  necessary,  that  you  should 
move  thither  at  once.  You  will  have  nothing 
to  reproach  yourself  with,  I  hope,  in  leaving  all 
matters  here  in  my  hands.  Cubra  will  of 
course  accompany  you.  Come,  will  you  give 
me  your  promise,  like  a  good  girl  ?" 

"I  will  do  what  you  will,  Mr.  Carstairs, 
upon  one  condition.  Tell  me  what  has  killed 
my  poor  dear  father." 

"  Killed  him  I  my  child — for  I  must  be  your 
father  now — how  ever  can  you  use  such  words? 
He  died  of  that  commonest  disease  of  all,  old 
age.  But,  since  it  was  so  very  sudden,  it  was 
my  duty  to  ask  those  questions.  Kichard,  if 
he  had  been  himself,  would  have  understood  the 
necessity  of  them  at  once,  although  they  seem 
90  strange  to  ^o"." 

For  serious,  systematic,  kindly  lying,  there  is 
nobody  that  approaches  your  honest  medical 
man.  lie  will  assure  the  husband  (with  the 
best  intentions,  and  for  his  physical  good,  mind 
you),  lying  upon  the  bed,  which  his  science  tells 
him  he  will  never  leave  with  life,  of  returning 
strength ;  he  will  bid  the  wife,  worn  out  with 
watching  by  his  side,  and  to  whom  one  refresh- 
ing sleep  is  priceless,  to  be  of  good  cheer,  for 
that  there  is  healthiest  hope.  And,  used  to 
these  pious  frauds,  Mr.  Carstairs  let  fall  his 
words  as  though  he  were  dropping  drops  from 
the  pliial  of  the  very  quintessence  of  truth,  and 
Agnes  Crawford  believed  them. 

"  When  we  poor  mortals  have  struggled  on 
to  eighty  years," continued  the  doctor,  "death 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  come  upon  us  unawares. 
If  its  approach  be  sudden,  so  much  the  better- 
that  is,  if  we  are  only  prepared  for  it  in  a  spii*- 
itual  sense  ;  with  the  young  and  the  unpre- 
pared, alas !  it  is  very  ditferent." 

Cunning  IMr.  Carstairs  walked  to  the  window 
as  though  he  did  not  wish  his  countenance  to 
be  perused.  Ills  object  was  to  interest  his  hear- 
er in  something  else — no  matter  if  it  was  itself 
distressing — than  that  with  which  her  mind  was 
oppressed ;  to  lift,  if  but  for  a  few  minutes,  the 
dull  weight  of  that  desolation  which  sits  upon 
the  mourner's  soul  and  crushes  the  life-springs. 
His  attemjjt  succeeded.  Agnes,  always  solici- 
tous for  others,  inquired  of  whom  he  spoke. 

'•Of  JohnCarlyon." 

"What  of  him  ?"  cried  Agnes,  starting  to  her 
feet.  "He  is  not  ill,  I  trust ;  not  dying — oh, 
no,  surely,  sir,  he  is  not  dying?" 

The  doctor  had  overshot  his  mark.  With 
clasped  hands,  and  suddenly  tearful  eyes,  the 
young  girl  stood  before  him,  the  very  picture 
of  despair.  In  closing  one  channel  of  grief  he 
had  oiiened  the  flood-gates  of  a  deeper  woe. 

"  Mr.  Carlyon  is  not  in  any  immediate  dan- 


ger, that  I  know  of,  my  dear  young  lady.  But 
his  is  not  a  good  life.  I  mean,  he  has  a  dis- 
ease— heart  comi)laint — which  may  carry  him 
off  at  any  moment,  and  u  itli  which  it  is  not  to 
be  exi)ected  that  he  can  live  long." 

"How  long  have  you  known  this,  Mr.  Car- 
stairs?" 

"Not  long.  Only  since  that  day  when  he 
saved  3'our  life  u])on  the  sands." 

"  Oh,  would  to  heaven  that  I  had  known  it, 
too,"  cried  Agnes,  passionately.  "  I  might  have 
tried  more  earnestly  to  move  hira  than  I  did. 
He  is  not  fit  to  die,  doctor." 

"Few  of  us  are,  my  dear  young  lady.  Yet 
he  has  a  noble  soul,  and  a  kind  heart." 

"  He  has,  I  know  it.  That  such  a  one  should 
be  lost  is  only  the  more  terrible."  Here  she 
paused  a  moment.  "Does  Mrs.  Newman — 
does  his  sister  know  of  his  sad  state  ?  I  mean, 
as  to  health." 

"  Yes  ;  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  acquaint  her 
with  it,  in  order  that  some  reconciliation  might 
be  effected.  But  she  would  not  move  in  the 
matter.  She  said  that  she  had  washed  her 
hands  of  him.  She  is  a  hard  woman.  Car- 
lyon once  remarked  that  she  had  made  a  re- 
ligion for  herself  out  of  the  worst  parts  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  certainly  she  is  one  of  tiiose  who 
makes  its  profession  repulsive.  He  has  gone  to 
London,  and  will  not  return  to  Woodlecs  any 
more.  They  Avill  never  meet  again  in  this 
world,  those  two — be  calm,  my  dear  young  la- 
dy ;  be  like  yourself,  and  bear  with  patience 
what  God  himself  permits  to  be.  I  can  not,  I 
dare  not,  leave  you  in  this  state.  You  will 
come  to  the  Brae,  like  a  good  girl.  I  have  a 
close  carriage  at  the  door." 

He  spoke  to  her  as  though  she  were  a  child, 
and,  like  a  child,  she  listened,  and  obeyed  him. 

"I  suppose  you  are  right,  doctor,"  returned 
she,  feebly  ;  "  as  I  am  sure  you  are  kind.  Yes, 
I  will  go  witli  you.  But  first  let  me  take  leave 
of  Iihn  for  the  last  time." 

"No,  my  dear  young  lady,"  replied  the  doc- 
tor, firmly;  "that  must.not  be.  It  may  seem 
cruel,  but  I  am  only  dning  what  he  would  wish 
could  those  cold  lips  speak.  Think  of  him  as 
you  saw  him  last." 

"I  understand,  sir.     Alas,  alas!" 

"A  good  girl,  a  wise  and  dutiful  girl.  I 
will  ring  for  Cubra,  and  she  will  get  ready  such 
things  as  you  may  require.  I\Irs.  IMarcon  quite 
expects  you  both." 

"  You  will  see  Richard,  sir,  before  you  go." 

"True,  I  had  forgotten  him  ;  I  will  look  to 
him  at  once." 

"Tell  him,  please,  with  my  kindest  love,  Mr. 
Carstairs — his  cousin's  love — that  I  do  not  feel 
equal  to  wishing  him  good-b}-  to-day.  In  a 
day  or  two — after  the — " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  will  manage  all  that,"  returned 
the  doctor.  "  Of  course  you  can  not  see  him. 
Here  is  Cubra — tliat's  well." 

The  black  woman  put  a  key  into  his  hand, 
and  wliis]iered  a  few  words,  unobserved  by  her 
young  mistress,  who  lay  back  on  the  sofa  with 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


65 


closed  eyes,  conscious  of  uotliing  save  her  be- 
reavement. 

"  I  will  rinp;  for  them  when  they  are  to  come 
up,"  resumed  he,  in  the  same  low  voice.  "Get 
together  what  your  mistress  will  require  fur  tlic 
next  few  days.  You  must  go  witli  her  to  Wid- 
ow Marcon's  at  once.  The  sooner  she  gets  from 
this  house  the  better.     Where  is  Mr.  Richard?" 

"  He  has  gone  out,  sir." 

"  Gone  out?     Where  has  he  gone?" 

"God  A'mighty  knows.  Gone  for  a  long 
walk,  he  said  ;  his  head  was  bad.  He  take  poor 
massa's  death  to  heart  so  mucli." 

Mr.  Carstairs  nodded,  and  left  the  room. 

"That's  strange,''  muttered  he.  "He  was 
in  the  house  when  I  came,  for  I  saw  him  at 
his  bedroom  window.  I  wonder  why  ho  doesn't 
wish  to  see  me."  Once  more  the  doctor  sought 
the  chamber  of  death ;  once  more  bent  over  the 
dead  man — and,  as  he  did  so,  his  countenance 
grew  graver  than  ever.  "This  is  liorrible," 
murmured  he.  "  It  would  kill  her  to  think 
that  he  killed  himself,  and  would  benefit  no- 
body. But  if  there  has  been  foul  play — j'ct 
that  is  impossible."  He  rang  the  bell,  and  sum- 
moned the  man-servant,  while  he  set  his  seal 
upon  the  desk,  wherein  he  knew  lay  the  dead 
man's  will.  For  Mr.  Crawford  had  been  more 
communicative  to  the  doctor  of  late  than  to  any 
other  person.  Then  the  chamber  was  again 
given  up  to  those  who  minister  the  last  rites  to 
poor  humanity. 

Mr.  Carstrtirs  saw  the  carriage  depart  con- 
taining the  unhappy  Agnes  and  her  attendant ; 
then  followed  close  behind  it  on  liis  pony. 

"  At  all  risks,  I  will  spare  her  if  I  can,"  mur- 
mured he.  "  It  will  be  time  enough  to  make  a 
stir  when  the  will  is  read,  and  if  any  body  but 
herself  is  found  to  derive  benefit  from  the  old 
man's  death.  I  wonder  why  Richard  would 
not  see  me." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


TOWED  ASTEIJN. 


MoxTHS  have  passed  away  since  the  events 
recorded  in  the  last  chapter.  In  the  will  of 
Mr.  Crawford  no  other  name  save  that  of  his 
daughter  was  mentioned.  Richard's  little  prop- 
erty  had  been  somewhat  improved  while  in  his 
uncle's  care,  and  was  found  more  than  sufficient 
for  his  own  A'cry  simjjle  needs.  He  had  had 
an  interview  with  Mr.  Carstairs  after  his  uncle's 
funeral,  in  whicli  he  had  behaved  with  unex- 
pected calmness  and  good  sense.  He  was  very 
solicitous  about  his  own  state  of  health,  and 
seemed  to  be  well  aware  that  there  was  danger 
with  respect  to  his  mind.  He  owned  that  he 
still  felt  the  effects  of  the  sun-stroke  received 
two  years  ago,  although  only  on  occasions  of 
excitement.  Ho  spoke  of  his  uncle  with  re- 
spect, but  without  any  hypocritical  regret.  He 
felt  sorry,  he  said,  now  that  Mr.  Crawford  was 
dead,  that  they  had  not  been  better  friends;  but 
confessed  that  they  never  had  got  on  agreeably 


together.  Any  lingering  suspicion  which  the 
doctor  may  have  entertained  of  "foul  play"  in 
the  matter  of  the  oKl  man's  death  was  entirely 
done  away  with,  and  whatever  views  he  still  en- 
tertained with  respect  to  the  untimeliness  of  his 
decease,  he  attached  no  blame  to  Richard.  He 
was  much  ashamed  of  himself  at  having  ever 
harbored  so  groundless  a  prejudice,  and  felt  a 
kindly  interest  in  one  he  had  so  gravely  w  roug- 
ed in  thought.  He  cordially  ajiproved  of  the 
young  man's  ])roposition  to  mix  with  the  world 
for  a  little  before  going  to  sea  again,  and  Rich- 
ard accordingly  set  out  for  London. 

Agnes  was  greatly  pleased  at  the  unexpected 
good  sense  exhibited  by  her  cousin.  When  he 
came  to  Ind  her  good-bye,  he  showed  no  trace 
of  that  willfidness  and  ])assion  he  had  been  used 
to  exhibit,  and  which  had  caused  her  to  regard 
him  of  late  (although  she  did  not  own  it  to  her- 
self) w-ith  less  of  aftection  than  alarm.  Per- 
ha])s,  out  of  regard  for  her  recent  bereavement, 
perhaps,  because  he  felt  that  he  had  really  no 
chance  of  winning  her  heart,  he  made  no  di- 
rect allusion  to  his  love  for  her,  and  even  the 
hint  he  drojiped  was  so  slight  that  it  did  not 
strike  her  with  any  force  until  long  afterward. 
He  said  that  he  felt  it  n^as  better  for  him  to 
leave  Mellor  for  the  present,  but  that  he  should 
see  her  again — she  might  depend  on  that — be- 
fore he  undertook  another  voyage.  When 
she  spoke  of  writing  to  him  in  the  mean  time, 
he  answered,  "No,  Agnes  ;  I  had  i-ather  there 
was  silence  between  ns  for  the  present.  I  shall 
hear  about  you,  and  of  every  thing  you  do — that 
is,  Mr.  Carstairs  has  promised  to  let  me  know.!' 
He  was  manifestly  making  a  gallant  effort  to 
sliake  off  his  hopeless  passion,  and  at  parting 
site  was  more  deeply  moved,  or  seemed  to  be  so, 
than  he.  She  mentally  blessed  the  kindly  lit- 
tle doctor  for  his  good  offices  which,  while  re- 
leasing her  from  a  most  embarrassing  attach- 
ment, had  left  her  an  affectionate  well-wisher 
and  friend  in  her  only  cousin. 

So  Richard  Crawford,  like  John  Carlyon,  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  great  world  of  London, 
where  men  do,  even  more  than  elsewhere,  what 
is  right  in  their  own  eyes  ;  and  Agnes  was  left 
in  her  little  world  at  Mellor — shrunk  to  small 
dimensions  indeed  by  their  secession — at  Wid- 
ow Marcon's  cottage,  "The  Brae." 

A  very  jiretty  little  dwelling  it  was,  on  tho 
very  margin  of  the  bay,  down  to  which  the 
small  garden,  with  its  couple  of  tiny  terraces 
and  Lilliputian  arbor,  sloped.  A  toy  palace, 
fit  for  a  queen  (of  Titania's  nature),  with  a  ven' 
limited  court.  The  widow,  finding  herself  but 
ill  provided  for  at  her  husband's  death,  had 
taken  the  place  with  a  speculative  eye.  Such 
a  bijou  of  a  villa  residence  could  not  fail  to  at- 
tract some  elderly  si)inster  or  widow  like  her- 
self, or  even  two  sisters  (if  they  did  not  mind 
occui)ying  the  same  sleeping  apartment,  for 
there  was  but  one  "best  bedroom"),  it  was 
such  a  lovely  spot,  and  so  adapted  for  persons 
of  elegant  tastes  and  limited  incomes.  There 
was  a  dining-room,  in  which  one  could  not  quite 


66 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


give  what  is  called  a  dinner-party,  but  three 
could  sit  down  in  it  very  comfort;ibly,  <and  even 
more,  if  the  fourth  didn't  mind  gettinfj;  up  from 
her  seat  to  let  tlie  servant  i)ass  round  the  table. 
This  room  opened  upon  a  lawn,  soft  as  a  carpet 
(and  not  at  all  larger  than  arc  the  common 
run  of  carpets)— the  only  naturally  level  piece 
of  ground  in  the  whole  fairy  demesne.  The 
dining-room  opened  upon  "the  hall,"  upon  the 
white  stone  floor  of  which  you  might  have  eaten 
vourdiimer,  so  far  as  cleanliness  was  concerned, 
and  provided  you  did  not  have  more  than  one  dish 
up  at  a  time,  for  there  would  not  have  been 
room  for  more,  and,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hall — a  good  long  step  (for  a  short  person) — lay 
the  drawing-room,  quite  a  stately  apartment  by 
comparison  with  the  rest,  and  capable  of  accom- 
modating six  persons — four  in  the  body  of  the 
room,  and  two  in  the  bow  window,  which  was 
built  in  a  bower  of  honeysuckle  and  roses, 
and  looked,  from  the  outside,  like  a  bird'snest. 
The  rent  of  "The  Brae" — which,  considered  as 
a  model  for  a  habitation,  was  really  perfect, 
however  absurd  as  a  real  dwelling-house  for 
grown-up  people — was  small  even  in  proportion 
to  its  dimensions ;  but  then  Miss  Crawford  was 
such  an  eligible  tenant  for  "not  giving  trouble," 
and  for  "putting  up"  with  the  widow's  short- 
comings and  ignorance  confessed  of  how  "the 
(juality"  require  to  be  served ;  and  also,  in  all 
probability,  "you  see,"  said  the  widow,  in  con- 
fidence to  her  gossips,  "  she  would  be  for  ajier- 
raanency." 

Thus,  though  the  income  hitherto  paid  to  her 
father,  notwithstanding  his  change  of  name,  by 
the  good-will  of  the  Government,  had,  of  course, 
ceased,  what  with  her  very  moderate  outgoings 
in  respect  to  lodging,  and  her  inexpensive  hab- 
its of  living,  Agnes,  so  far  from  being  poor, 
was  able  to  make  more  considei'able  investments 
even  than  before  in  that  stock  which,  though 
it  pays  but  little  more  to  its  debenture  holders 
at  present  than  the  London,  Chatham  and  Dover 
Railway,  is  spoken  of  by  the  clergy  and  others 
as  likely  one  day  to  return  an  immense  percent- 
age. If  giving  to  the  poor  is  lending  to  the 
Lord,  as  there  is  good  reason  to  believe,  Agnes 
Crawford  was  laying  up  for  herself  much  treas- 
ure in  heaven.  And  yet  she  was  not  happy. 
That  the  prosperity  of  the  wicked  (unless  pros- 
perity means  happiness)  should  offend  us  al- 
most beyond  reconcilement,  appears  unreason- 
able, compared  with  the  distrust  inspired  by  the 
unhappiness  of  the  godly.  That  (as  it  seems 
to  me)  is  a  matter  that  much  more  requires  an 
obedient,  unquestioning  faith.  It  is  certain 
that  Agnes  Crawford  was  not  happy.  Unlike 
tliat  ))ious  gentleman  who  deemed  it  a  cause  of 
thankfulness  (to  himself  and  the  elect)  that 
there  were  "babes  a  span  long  in  hell,"  she  not 
only  wished  that  no  little  one  should  perish,  but, 
if  it  were  possible,  not  a  single  soul,  and  espe- 
cially not  John  Carlyon's  soul.  What  a  short 
time  had  he  to  live,  and  in  the  midst  of  life  how 
near  was  he  to  death ;  and  yet  what  could  she 
do  ?       Many   a   night  she  lay  awake    in    her 


sea-bordered  home,  while  the  great  winter  tides 
swirled  in  and  out,  and  the  wind  moaned  and 
shrieked  like  a  lost  sjjirit,  thinking  with  ach- 
ing heart  of  him  who  saved  her  from  the  roar- 
ing flood,  but  whom  site  could  not  save.  What 
was  he  doing,  what  was  he  thinking,  what  was 
he  believing,  during  those  precious  unreturning 
months?  Mr.  Carstairs  had  heard  from  him 
once  or  twice,  but  only  with  respect  to  certain 
business  matters  of  a  nature  to  be  entrusted  to 
him  rather  than  to  Mr.  Scrivens.  lie  was  set- 
ting  his  house  in  order  in  one  sense,  yet  there 
was  no  sign  of  carefulness  for  the  most  impor- 
tant matter  of  all.  How  often  were  her  small 
white  hands  wedded  in  vicarious  supjjlication — 
how  often  was  his  name  whisjicred  to  God 
through  those  pure  lii)s !  Many  men  have  in- 
tercessors of  this  sort  (besides  the  Great  One), 
who,  innocent  themselves,  little  know  what  sins 
they  would  have  shriven ;  and  Heaven  grant 
such  prayers  may  not  be  altogether  unanswered. 
Let  us  trust  there  must  be  something  ^ood  in 
the  object,  however  unworthy,  that  can  j/rovoke 
such  supjdications. 

Winter,  then,  has  come  and  gone,  and  it  is 
Spring.  The  grass  is  green  upon  her  father's 
grave,  and  his  memory  has  faded  away  wholly, 
save  from  one  loving  heart.  It  is  warm  Enough 
slowly  to  and  fi-o  to  pace  the  tiny  terrace  of  ''  The 
Brae,"  or  sitting  in  the  harbor,  book  in  hand,  to 
let  it  idly  fall  upon  the  lap,  and  watch  the  red- 
sailed  fishing-boats  putting  out  to  sea  with  the 
flood,  or  the  carts  with  their  freight  of  cocklers, 
crossing  the  eau  to  their  work  upon  the  sands, 
with  the  ebb.  In  the  morning,  Agnes  sits  there 
before  slie  sets  forth  upon  her  ministrations 
among  the  poor  or  the  sick,  and  those  (saddest 
of  all  human  wayfarers)  who  are  at  once  both 
sick  and  poor  ;  and  in  the  evening,  when  her 
labor  of  love  is  over. 

It  is  morning  now ;  the  beginning  of  a  bright 
and  cheerful  May  day,  with  a  wind  that  has  lost 
the  sting  of  March,  not  keen,  yet  blowing  free. 
The  air  is  clear,  and  objects  can  be,  seen  afar 
which  are  often  hidden  by  the  hazy  veil  of  Sum- 
mer. The  tide  is  running  out  like  a  Hiill-race. 
If  yonder  fishermen,  who  have  been  fishing  be- 
yond Greycrags,  be  not  wary,  there  is  danger 
that  their  boat  will  be  left  aground.  Agnes 
knows  this  from  long  acquaintance  with  the 
treacherous  bay,  as  well  as  from  her  constant 
watching  of  the  sands  and  the  sea  during  these 
latter  months.  She  knows,  too,  the  men  who 
are  in  the  boats  ;  they  are  the  Millets,  father 
and  son.  If  old  Stephen  (not  imjjroved  in  mor- 
als, poor  fellow,  although  still  proposing  to  be 
so — ashamed,  but  not  reformed)  were  alone  yon- 
der, she  would  be  alarmed  for  his  safety  ;  but 
William  is  with  him,  agile,  sagacious,  cool. 
Still,  why  do  they  dela\  ?  By  the  line  of  sea- 
wall that  is  showing  on  the  island,  by  the  dark 
crests  of  rock  that  are  rising  here  and  there  out 
of  the  yellow  foam,  she  knows  that  they  have 
already  lingered  longer  than  is  prudent.  True, 
the  head  of  their  boat  is  pointing  seaward,  but 
they  are  not  yet  in  the  main  current,  and  theii- 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


67 


progress  is  very  slow — slower  than  it  ought  to 
be,  considering  that  one  has  the  oars  out,  and 
the  other  is  pushing  Iiis  hardest  with  the  punt 
pole.  She  makes  out  so  much  tlirough  a  little 
telescope;  but  siie  can  not  make  out  what  is 
the  dark  object  they  are  towing  astern,  and 
which  impedes  their  movements.  She  is  not 
afraid,  as  one  only  acquainted  with  tlie  dan;j;ers 
of  the  bay  and  not  with  its  peculiarities,  miglit 
be  of  its  being  a  drowned  man.  Such  are 
rarely  found  in  the  locality  in  question,  and 
never  until  the  tide  has  retired.  By  great  ex- 
ertions, and  with  frequent  and  inexplicable 
changes  of  their  course,  the  boat  is  at  last  got 
into  the  main  stream,  and  hurries  toward  the 
village  fiist  enough  ;  the  sole  difficulty  now  lies 
in  stopping  in  at  what  is  called,  by  courtesy, 
the  landing-place — a  few  narrow  yards  of  planks 
laid  ujion  a  bed  of  shining  ooze.  Now,  she  can 
make  out  what  it  is  they  have  behind  them ;  it 
is  a  horse,  fivstened  to  the  boat's  stern  by  a 
bridle. 

Agnes  threw  down  her  book,  and  hastened 
through  the  little  garden  to  the  landing-place. 
Some  accident  must  have  certainly  happened 
when  a  saddle-horse  is  found  in  that  terrible 
bay ;  it  is  not  long  before  they  find  the  rider. 
Her  mind  at  once  reverted  to  Red  Berild,  and  to 
liim  with  whom  it  was  so  often  occupied,  his 
master;  but  John  Carlyon  and  his  steed  were 
far  away,  she  knew.  Whose  horse  was  this, 
then,  exhausted,  half-dead,  hurried  along  by  the 
rapid  stream  without  any  motion  of  its  own,  and 
at  times  half-rolling  over,  so  as  to  show  its 
girths,  as  though  it  were  dead  indeed  ?  In  a 
village  like  Mellor,  one  knows  not  only  each 
inhabitant,  but  every  horse  and  dog,  yet  slie 
did  not  recognize  this  horse.  Without  wasting 
time  in  questions,  however,  she  stood  ready,  as 
the  fishing-smack  drew  near,  to  seize  the  boat- 
hook  which  William  Millet  was  holding  out,  for 
there  was  nobody  but  herself  at  "  the  point,"  as 
this  place  was  called,  where  a  jut  of  land  turned 
the  main  course  of  the  eaii  and  formed  a  little 
bay  behind  it.  Into  this  bay  the  boat  was 
drawn,  with  the  poor  animal  towing  behind  it 
— a  small  black  mare,  with  heaving  flanks,  and 
frightened  eyes,  who  could  scarcely  keep  her 
feet  in  the  sliallow  water,  although  the  sand  be- 
neath was  tolerably  firm. 

"  A  bad  business,  miss,  I  fear,"  observed  Will- 
iam, when  they  were  safe  in  port. 

Old  Stephen,  to  whom,  probably,  conversing 
upon  such  a  subject  with  Agnes  was  personally 
distasteful,  contented  himself  with  touching  his 
cap  and  shaking  his  head. 

"Where  was  it  found?"  asked  she.  "  Poor 
creature,  how  it  shivers  I" 

"  Under  the  lee  of  the  island,  miss.  A  game 
little  thing  is  that  mare ;  she  must  have  been  in 
the  water  these  four  hours,  swimming  round 
and  round,  and  round  and  round,  with  not  an 
inch  of  firm  ground  for  her  feet." 

"  And  the  rider,  William  ?" 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  him,  whoever  he 
be,"  answered  the  young  man,  reverently. 


"You  don't  know,  then,  to  whom  the  horse 
belongs  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do,  miss.  But  it  may  not  have  been 
the  owner  who  was  upon  her,  you  see.  Heaven 
forbid  that  it  should  have  been." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that,  AVilliam  ?" 

"Well,  miss,  we're  none  of  us  fit,  but  Mr. 
Scrivens,  he  never  loved  God's  people,  and  was 
a  hard  man  to  the  jioor." 

"  Hush,  William  ;  do  not  say  things  like  that. 
We  are  no  man's  judges.  Is  it  Mr.  Scriveiis's 
horse  ?" 

Two  or  three  men  had  gathered  together  at 
the  landing-place  by  this  time,  and  were  lielp- 
ing  with  the  boat ;  one  of  them,  the  hostler  at  the 
Mellor  Arms,  here  interposed. 

"No,  miss,"  said  he,  "it's  wus  than  Lawyer 
Scrivens,  or  at  least  it  comes  nigher  to  Mellor. 
That's  Mr.  Jedediah's  horse." 

"What,  Mrs.  Newman's  son?" 

"  Yes,  miss.  He  bought  this  mare  of  Mr. 
Scrivens  only  three  days  ago.  I  saw  him  cross 
the  sands  upon  her  yesterdaj',  and  spoke  with 
him ;  he  said  he  should  not  be  back  last  night, 
for  that  there  would  not  be  time.  He  must 
have  tried  to  come  back,  poor  lad,  and  so  been 
drowned.'' 

Agnes  turned  deadly  pale,  and  grasped  the 
hand-rail  of  the  little  wooden  pier ;  her  limbs 
trembled  beneath  her. 

"  What  is  to  be  done,  William?" 

"  I  must  get  a  horse  and  search  the  sands, 
miss,  and  you  must  go  up  to  the  Priory  as  was, 
and  break  it  to  his  mother." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


That  would  have  been  a  terrible  office  for 
any  woman,  no  matter  of  how  dutiful  a  spirit, 
which  William  Millet  laid  upon  Agnes  Craw- 
ford, when  he  said,  "You  must  go  up  and  break 
it  to  her" — the  almost  certain  death  of  her  only 
son,  to  a  doting  mother;  but  it  was  far  worse 
for  Agnes  than  for  any  one  else.  Mrs.  Newman 
and  herself  had  never  met  since  that  angiy  part- 
ing at  Greycrags,  months  ago,  and  she  knew  that 
Carlyon's  sister  had  not  grown  less  bitter  against 
her  in  the  mean  time.  It  was  impossible  for 
Agnes,  because  contrary  to  her  nature,  to 
shrink  from  any  duty,  but  it  was  no  wonder  that 
in  such  a  case  she  should  procrastinate. 

"We  can  not  be  sure,  William,"  said  she, 
meekly,  "that  this  awful  catastrophe  has  hap- 
pened. We  do  not  know  for  certain  that  any 
one  is  drowned,  and  far  less  who  it  is." 

William  shook  his  head,  and  answered, 
quietly — 

"Very  good.  Miss  Agnes.  As  soon  as  the 
tide  runs  out,  I  will  take  horse  and  search  the 
sands." 

"  Tills  here  mare  won't  be  fit  to  carry  a  man 
within  this  twelve  hours,"  observed  the  hostler; 
"even  if  she  gets  over  this  at  all.     A  nice  bit 


(18 


CARLTON'S  YEAR. 


uf  blood,  too,  she  is;  and  a  pretty  price,  I'll 
answer  for  it,  poor  Mr.  Jedediah  paid  for  her." 

Poor  Mr.  Jedediah.  How  that  word  shot 
through  Agnes  Crawford's  heart.  She  knew 
the  young  man  by  report  only  too  well ; 
knew  of  his  evil  doings  among  her  own  little 
flock;  a  wolf,  he  had  been,  to  more  than  one 
pretty  lamb.  And,  lo,  he  was  now  cut  oif  in 
the  midst  of  his  sins  ! 

"  What  horse  have  you  up  at  the  inn,  Jim  ?" 
asked  old  Stephen. 

"  Not  one,"  returned  the  hostler.  "  The  greys 
are  gone  to  a  wedding  out  Northbrook  way, 
and  a  gent,  as  come  to  our  house  last  night,  has 
just  taken  out  the  strawberry  mare,  meaning  to 
call  at  Woodlees  on  his  way  home.  I  believe 
he  wants  to  buy  Squire  Carlyon's  house." 

Marrying  and  buying,  how  the  world  runs  on, 
though  death  is  ever  so  busy  among  it !  thought 
Agnes. 

"  Is  there  no  other  horse  ?" 

"None  as  I  knows  of,  ma'am ;  no,  not  one  in 
the  village,  excep — "  and  the  hostler  hesitated 
and  looked  at  William. 

"Then  it's  all  the  more  necessary.  Miss  Ag- 
nes," said  the  latter,  interpreting  his  glance, 
"  that  you  should  see  Mistress  Newman  quickly. 
It's  Mr.  Jedediah 's  own  horse  as  is  wanted ; 
there's  none  else.  I  am  sorry  to  put  such  a 
burden  on  you.  Miss  Agnes,  but  you  must  ask 
her  to  lend  him  to  me,  you  must  indeed." 

"Ask  for  her  son's  horse  to  search  for  his 
dead  body  !  I  can  not  do  it !"  exclaimed  Agnes, 
wringing  her  hands. 

"You  need  not  say  it's  her  son  as  is  lost, 
miss,"  observed  old  Stephen,  cunningly.  "You 
can  say  as  somebod/s  a-missing ;  there  will  be  no 
lie  in  that,  for,  as  you  were  saying,  it  mai/  not 
be  Mr.  Jedediah  after  all." 

The  children  of  this  world  are,  in  their  gen- 
eration, wiser  than  the  children  of  light ;  and 
the  old  man's  proposition  was  welcome  to  Agnes, 
by  comparison  with  the  unrelenting  straight- 
foiTvardness  of  his  son  ;  it  put  oft'  the  evil  mo- 
ment, and  even  afforded  some  flicker  of  hope. 

"  I  will  go  at  once,"  said  she,  quietly. 
"  You  will  come  with  me,  William?" 

"Certainly,  miss.  You  see,"  continued  he, 
as  they  left  the  landing  and  took  the  road  to- 
gether toward  the  Priory,  "that  I  couldn't  go 
myself  to  Mistress  Newman's.  I  am  out  of  her 
favor,  although  through  no  fsiult  of  mine.  I 
thought  it  was  only  right  to  tell  her  something 
the  other  day,  respecting — something  about  her 
son,  as  it  was  her  pai  t  to  look  to ;  and  she  was 
very  angiy,  very.  Therefore,  she  might  think 
(which  Heaven  forbid),  that  I  brought  this  sad 
news  to  her  in  the  way  of  a  judgment  like. 
You,  who  have  never  given  her  offense,  and  are 
a  lady  like  herself,  are  much  more  fit  to  tell 
her. " 

"  I  see,  William,  I  see,"  answered  Agnes, 
mechanically.  Her  brain  was  busy  with  what 
she  should  say  to  this  unhappy  woman,  not 
dreaming  of  the  desolation  that  had  befallen 
her,  filled  with   petty  thoughts,    and   probably 


even  hostile  and  aggressive  toward  herself. 
What  .i/iou/<l  she  say? 

UlJ  the  hill,  and  beside  the  ivied  wall  to  the 
gate  of  the  old  house,  which  every  body,  save  its 
tenant,  still  called  the  Priory.  It  was  getting 
very  near  now,  that  terrible  interview ;  and 
nothing  had  been  given  her  to  speak.  The 
page  looked  astonished  when  he  opened  the 
door  ;  perhaps  because  she  was  a  stronger  to  the 
house,  perhaps  because  of  her  companion,  Will- 
iam. On  either  supposition  it  was  natural 
enough,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  add  to  her  dis- 
conii)osure. 

"  I  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Newman." 

The  boy  lingered,  as  though  some  exjilana- 
tion  were  necessary ;  very  likely  he  surmised 
that  something  was  wrong;  "on  verj-  particu- 
lar business,"  added  she.  He  led  the  way  at 
once  up  stairs  ;  she  did  not  notice  that  he  gave 
William  a  sign  to  remain  below ;  she  had 
counted  upon  his  presence  and  support,  but  she 
was  ushered  in  alone. 

Mrs.  Newman,  early  as  it  was,  had  already 
breakfasted,  and  was  seated  at  a  window  of  the 
drawing-room,  from  which  she  had  doubtless 
watched  her  approach  ;  she  rose  and  gave  a  cold 
and  haughty  bow.  The  room  was  cold  and 
without  fire  ;  the  atmosphere  and  the  frigidity 
of  her  reception  combined  to  chill  the  unhappy 
visitor.     Mrs.  Newman  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  To  what  am  I  indebted  for  the  unexpected 
honor  of  a  visit  from  Miss  Crawford  ?"  The 
tone  was  studiously  constrained,  but  there  was 
no  mistaking  the  expression  of  the  speaker's 
face.  It  was  the  very  concentration  of  rage  and 
loathing. 

"  I  come,  dear  madam — " 

"  Spare  the  '  dear,'  "  interrupted  Mrs.  New- 
man, harshly.  "Pray  avoid  all  unnecessary 
hypocrisies  ;  I  assure  you  that  no  words  you 
can  make  use  of  will  impose  upon  me." 

""  I  have  no  wish  to  impose  upon  you,  mad- 
am. I  come  as  a  Christian  woman  in  the 
cause  of  charity,  just  as  I  would  come  to  anj'- 
one  else." 

"  Thank  you.  I  have  my  own  poor  to  attend 
to;  and  all  that  I  have  to  give  away  has  been 
given.  I  am  not  so  rich  as  some  folks,  and 
have  no  such  expectations,  but  I  do  my  best." 

"God  forbid,  madam!  that  it  should  not  be 
so,  or  that  I  should  doubt  it ;  but  you  mis- 
understand me." 

"  Indeed  !  I  only  drew  my  conclusions  from 
the  person  who  accompanied  yon.  An  impu- 
dent, low-bred  fellow,  who  has  himself  insulted, 
although  he  has  not  injured  me  as  you  have." 

"  I,  madam  ?" 

"Oh,  you  have  a  very  innocent  face,  but  it 
does  not  hide  your  scheming  heart  from  mc, 
young  lady.  And  let  me  tell  you  this — in  order 
that  you  may  not  stay  here  from  the  idea  of 
your  being  welcome — that  I  hate  the  very  sight 
of  you.  You  the  are  vilest  and  wickedest  girl 
I  know — tliere  is  not  a  hussy  in  the  parish — " 

"Mrs.  Newman,"  interposed  Agnes,  in  a 
trembling  voice,  "  there  is  a  man  drowned  iu 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


60 


tlic  bay,  and  I  want  your  horse — the  loan  of 
vour  son's  horse — in  order  that  William  Millet 
may  searcii  the  sands  for  the  dead  body." 

•'There  are  horses  at  the  inn,  which  you  may 
hire,  for  you  have  plenty  of  money  now,  I 
make  no  doubt.  Let  the  backbiting:,  imper- 
tinent knave,  who  seems  to  be  your  friend, 
take  one  of  tiiose.  I  will  not  lend  him — him, 
least  of  all  people — my  dear  son's  horse.  Jcd- 
cdiah  is  very  particular  about  his  horses." 

"Those  at  tlie  inn  are  all  engaged,  madam. 
Pray  lend  it." 

"  I  will  not.  Is  there  any  thing  else  that  you 
have  come  here  for  ?  If  not,  you  have  your 
answer." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Newman,  pray  forget  that  it  is 
I  who  ask  yon,  and  lend  William  your  horse. 
You  will  be  sorry  for  it,  else,  some  day,  you 
will  indeed.  Think  of  the  father,  or  the  motlier, 
who  may  be  awaiting  the  return  of  this  lost 
man,  and  in  vain — " 

"  Yes,  or  the  lover,"  interposed  Mrs.  New- 
man, scornfully.  "The  young  woman  that 
adores  him,  but  who  will  be  comforted  a  little, 
jierhaps,  if  he  has  left  her  all  his  money.  You 
feign  astonishment,  Miss  Crawford,  remarkably 
well.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me" — here  her  voice 
rose  to  a  shrill  scream — "  that  you  do  not 
know  that  my  brother,  John  Carlyon,  has  left 
you — you,"  you  minx — doubtless  for  value  re- 
ceived— all  his  money?  has  beggared  his  natural 
heirs  for  your  sweet  sake?  Do  you  dare  to  tell 
me  tliat  you  do  not  know  that?" 

"God  is  my  witness,  Mrs.  Newman,  that  I 
have  never  heard  one  whisper  of  this  thing  be- 
fore." 

"Well,  then,  you  hear  it  now,  let  us  sup- 
pose, for  the  first  time  ;  mind,  I  say,  let  us  sup- 
pose ?  Do  not  imagine  that  you  will  hoodwink 
me  any  more.  Months  ago,  I  confess,  when  I 
taunted  you  with  some  such  design,  though  not 
one  half  so  bad  and  base  as  what  you  have  eftect- 
ed,  your  pretended  indignation  almost  inii)osed 
upon  me.  I  was  nearly  regretting  having  called 
you  husband-hunter,  fortune-seeker  ;  but  I  am 
not  to  be  deceived  now.  However,  supposing 
you  hear  for  the  first  time  of  the  disposition 
that  this  man  has  chosen  to  make  of  all  his  for- 
tune— save  a  beggarly  five  hundred  pounds  left 
to  my  son — what  is  your  opinion  as  to  its  char- 
acter ?  Is  it  just  ?  Come,  though  I  am  speak- 
ing of  your  lover,  and  to  you  who  profit  by  his 
insane  doting,  is  it  honest  ?" 

"Mrs.  Newman,  if  what  you  say  be  true,  I 
am  as  astonished  as  yourself,  and  almost  as 
sorry." 

"  Are  3'ou  ashamed,  miss  ?" 

"Yes.  Ashamed  to  have  been  the  invol- 
untary cause  of  warping  a  just  man's  judg- 
ment." 

"But  when  he  is  dead,  and  you  get  the  money, 
you  will  keep  it  ?" 

"  Not  an  hour — not  a  moment.  I  would  not 
touch  one  shilling.  So  soon  as  the  lawyers  can 
do  it,  you  will  have  every  penny  paid  over  to 
you,  as  though  it  had  come  to  you  directly,  and 


all  I  shall  ask  in  return  will  be  that  you  for- 
give your  brother." 

"  Come  here,  girl ;  more  to  the  light,  that  I 
may  sec  your  face.  Is  it  possible  that  you  speak 
the  truth  ?" 

"  God  knows,  madam." 

So  quiet,  so  gentle  of  speech,  and  the  fair 
face  so  grave  and  peaceful,  as  it  looked  up  at 
the  morning  sky,  not  even  a  miser  could  doubt 
her. 

"  Agnes  Crawford,  I  do  believe  j'ou." 

"  1  hope  so,  madam,  else  you  do  mc  wrong 
indeed." 

"  Stop,  girl,"  cried  Mrs.  Newman,  with  a 
suspicious  glance  ;  "  the  way  tliat  we  find  out 
whether  persons  are  really  sorry  who  have  com- 
mitted theft — not  that  I  call  you  thief,  although 
my  brother's  will  is  robbery — the  test  of  sinceri- 
ty, I  say,  is  restitution.  You  promise  to  restore 
what  you  may  come  by,  but  will  you  set  that 
promise  down  in  writing  ?" 

"  Very  gladly,  madam.  Write  any  form  of 
words  down  which  you  please,  and  I  will  sign 
it  now,  at  once.  Or  get  a  lawyer  to  do  so,  if 
law  there  be  for  such  a  thing.  In  any  case  it 
will  be  some  hold  upon  even  the  most  shame- 
less to  have  her  written  words  to  hold  up  against 
her,  and  that  hold  you  shall  have." 

"  Good  ;  you  do  your  best,  though  only  what 
is  right,  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Newman,  sitting  down, 
pen  in  hand.  "  You  have  behaved  like  a  lady 
and  a  Christian  woman.  You  will  understand 
that  for  myself  I  am  quite  content  with  your 
word.  If  it  were  only  /  concerned  in  the  mat- 
ter, it  should  rest  here.  But  the  interests  of 
my  son  are  bound  up  with  mine.  To  me,  an 
old  woman,  and  given,  I  trust,  but  little  to  the 
world's  vanities,  money  is  nothing ;  but  my 
Jedehiah — he,  dear  boy,  is  on  the  threshold  of 
life.  I  should  like  to  see  him  settled  well  be- 
fore I  die  ;  married,  perhaps,  to  some  good 
girl  like  yourself^for  I  believe  you  to  be  good, 
I  do  indeed — and  living  on  the  old  estate.  He 
is  a  fine  lad,  and  loves  his  mother ;  you  must 
not  listen  to  what  some  folks  say  against  him." 

"  The  horse,  dear  madam.  You  will  let 
William  have  the  horse?" 

"Certainly;  I  will  ring  the  bell  and  give 
orders."  Here  she  did  so.  "  He  must  be  very 
careful  with  it,  however,  for  it  is  Jed's  favorite. 
The  other,  upon  which  he  rode  to  Castleton 
yesterday,  is  a  new  purchase.  Mr.  Scrivens — " 
Mrs.  Newman  blushed  and  hesitated.  The  fact 
was  that,  so  desirous  had  she  been  to  get  the 
truth  concerning  her  brother's  will  out  of  the 
lawyer,  that  she  had  given  a  large  sum  for  the 
animal  solely  to  loosen  Mr.  Scrivens's  tongue ; 
and  in  this  she  had  succeeded.  Never  was  such 
bad  news  bought  at  so  high  a  price.  However, 
all  was  well  now. 

"  It  was  a  black  horse,  was  it  not?"  asked 
Agnes,  very  gravely. 

"Yes,  dear.  Did  you  see  it?  How  well 
Jed  rides,  and  how  well  he  looks  on  horseback  ; 
don't  you  think  so  ?  You  have  not  seen  him 
lately,  perhaps  ;  let  me  see,  in  three  hours'- time 


70 


CARLYOX'S  YEAR. 


— he  would  be  here  for  lunch,  he  said — he  will 
be  coming  home.  The  tide  has  almost  run 
down."  Tlierewasa  clatter  of  liorselioofs  in  the 
road,  and  Mrs.  Newman  flew  to  the  window. 
"  How  stupid  of  me,"  said  she,  with  disappoint- 
ment ;  "  of  course  it  couldn't  be  Jed.  There 
goes  William  Millet  on  the  grey,  and  I  hope  he 
will  be  very  careful.  I  don't  know  how  1 
should  look  Jed  in  the  face,-  if  any  thing — 
What's  the  matter.  Miss  Crawford  ?  What's 
the  matter,  Agnes?" 

"  Nothing  :  at  least  it  may  be  nothing  ;  but 
dear  Mrs.  Newman,  I  have  bad  news  for  you." 

"What — what?"  interrupted  the  other,  seiz- 
ing her  by  the  arm.  "My  brother  is  dead: 
sayitisthat.  Sayany  thing  but —  It's  not  my 
Jed.     No,  no,  it's  not ;  it  can  not  be  my  Jed." 

"  Let  us  hope,  let  us  pray,  for  the  best,  dear 
lady.  But  it  was  tlie  black  horse — your  son's 
horse — that  was  found  in  tlie  bay  this  morning 
with  saddle  and  bridle  on  him,  but  witiiout  a 
rider." 

The  pen  fell  from  Mrs.  Newman's  fingers ; 
her  face  stiffened  ;  her  eyes  gazed  upon  Agnes 
in  a  sort  of  stupefied  wonder.  The  sorrow  was 
too  great  for  the  poor  soul  to  realize.  "  Let  us 
go,"  murmured  she,  "  up  to  my  room.  Help 
me  up  to  my  room." 

Agnes  knew  what  she  meant ;  her  bedroom 
was  on  the  floor  above,  and  commanded  from 
its  window  a  wide  sweep  of  the  bay,  now  getting 
bare  and  brown.  So,  leaning  heavily  on  the 
young  girl's  arm,  Mrs.  Newman  made  her  way 
up  stairs,  trembling  in  every  limb,  and  murmur- 
ing to  herself,  with  a  pathos  beyond  all  tears 
or  moans,  "  My  Jed — my  Jed  !" 

The  two  M'omen  took  their  seats  at  the  win- 
dow, watching  the  wide  waste  of  sand  gi'owing 
and  growing  with  the  outgoing  tide,  while  tlie 
senseof  desolation  grew  and  grew  in  the  widow's 
heart.  Her  lips  had  ceased  to  move,  but  ever 
and  anon  she  returned  the  gentle  pressure  of 
the  young  girl's  hand  with  a  sharp  grip.  Her 
eyes  followed  everywhere  the  movements  of 
a  dark  and  distant  speck,  that  was  a  man  and 
horse,  moving  so  swiftly,  that  it  seemed  to  flit 
over  the  sands.  As  the  day  went  on,  the  usual 
busy  scene  began  to  present  itself  in  the  wave- 
deserted  bay,  but  the  women's  eyes  never  wan- 
dered elsewhere.  Suddenly  they  lost  sight  of 
this  object  of  their  anxious  gaze. 

"I  don't  see  him,  Agnes,"  exclaimed  the 
elder  lady,  hurriedly.  "I  don't  see  William 
Millet.      Oh,  where  is  he?" 

"  He  is  behind  the  island,  dear  Mrs.  New- 
man." Another  clasp  of  the  hand  was  her  re- 
ply. Minutes  went  by,  that  seemed  hours ; 
then  other  tiny  specks,  that  were  cocklers, 
seemed  to  make  toward  the  island,  and  disap- 
peared behind  it.  There  was  evidently  some- 
thing unusual  thereabouts  that  was  attracting 
them.  Presently  all  emerged  together — quite 
a  thick  black  block — round  the  rocky  promon- 
torj'  of  the  little  isle,  and  moved  toward  the 
village,  very  slowly — like  a  funeral. 

"  Shall  I  go  and  meet  them  ?"  asked  Agnes, 


tenderly  ;  for  her  companion's  suspense  seemed 
to  be  growing  insujiportable. 

"No,  no;  I  shall  know  it  soon  enough — 
soon  enough.  I  am  not  childless  yet,  Agnes 
— not  my  Jed,  oh,  God,  not  my  Jed  !" 

But  it  was  her  Jed,  poor  soul !  William 
had  found  the  body  of  the  unfortunate  lad  upon 
a  spit  of  sand,  quite  near  the  island,  but  sepa- 
rated from  it  by  what  was  in  flood-time  a  raging 
river.  He  was  lying  iijion  his  back,  with  his 
handsome  face  very  pale  and  quiet,  looking  up 
at  the  sky,  and  the  water  (a  usual  sight  in  such 
oases)  coming  out  of  his  mouth,  as  one  who  saw 
him-  said,  "like  barm." 

Jcdcdiah  had  attempted,  it  seems,  being 
somewhat  in  liquor,  to  cross  the  sands  the 
night  before,  dangerously  late,  in  respect  of  the 
tide,  yet  not  so  much  so,  but  that  one  well 
mounted,  and  who  knew  the  road  so  well  as  he, 
might  have  effected  the  passage.  But  his  new 
purchase,  the  black  mare,  unaccustomed  to  the 
unstable  track,  it  was  sujjposed  grew  restive, 
and  carrying  him  much  eastward  of  the  jiroper 
course,  there  threw  and  drowned  him. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


A     NEW     SISTER. 


Agnes  Cra-wford  not  only  remained  at  the 
Priory  to  comfort  the  wretched  mother  all  that 
day,  but  at  INIrs.  Newman's  earnest  entreaty, 
took  up  her  abode  there  until  after  the  funeral. 
Her  unselfish  goodness,  evidenced  by  a  thousand 
dailj'  acts  and  words,  worked  its  way  into  Mrs. 
Newman's  heart,  as  the  continuous  falling  of 
the  pearl-like  water-drops  will  eat  into  the  grim- 
mest stone ;  and  well  for  the  widow  that  it  was 
so.  Certain  sad  truths  respecting  her  dead 
boy  —  fiercely  combated  by  her  at  first,  but 
which,  at  last,  she  could  not  resist — were  pres- 
ently disclosed.  Mrs.  Newman  had  to  confess 
to  herself  that  lier  idol  had  not  been  all  she  had 
fondly  supposed  him  to  be.  She  was  not  less 
devoted  to  his  memory  upon  that  account — what 
mother  could  have  been? — but  the  knowledge 
that  her  son  had  sinned,  sowed  in  her  this  seed 
of  good,  that  she  grew  to  be  less  bitter  against 
sinners.  There  must,  she  felt,  be  mercy  for 
them  such  as  she  had  not  dreamed  of,  since 
it  was  needed  for  her  dead  boy. 

Not  a  day  now  passed  but  Agnes  came  up 
from  the  Brae,  and  sat  an  hour  or  more  in  the 
bereaved  Moman's  company.  She  never  stayed 
to  dinner,  because  she  saw  that  her  hostess  did 
not  wish  that ;  for,  as  time  grew  on,  the  old 
habit  of  saving,  of  parsimony,  not  unobscrvable 
even  during  that  interregnum  of  bereavement, 
resumed  its  sway  over  the  forlorn  widow.  Sad 
as  it  was,  Agnes  smiled  to  sec  it,  for  it  was  a 
sign  that  although  the  heart-wound  might  not 
have  been  healed — and,  indeed,  could  never  do 
so — it  was  cicatrized.  When  the  poor  lady  be- 
gan once  more  to  sniff  at  her  cook,  and  bully 
her  page,   to  count  the   cutlets   that   left  her 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


71 


table,  and  pursue  the  half-pence  in  her  grocer's 
book  with  wraj)!  attention,  it  was  as  liealthful  a 
symjiton  as  the  return  of  motion  to  the  limbs 
of  the  paralytic.  Yet,  thanks  to  the  influence 
of  her  new  friend,  she  made  some  struggle 
against  this  infirmity  of  her  nature.  The  first 
time  she  felt  herself  able  to  walk  to  church  she 
dropped  something  more  than  small  silver  (of 
which  she  always  had  a  great  store)  into  the 
collection  plate  ;  it  was  not,  indeed,  a  coin  of 
the  realm;  but  it  was  gold,  and  had  been 
valued  as  such  by  her  for  many  years,  and  kejit 
in  a  locked  drawer  in  her  cabinet.  Air.  Puce 
called  the  next  day  at  the  Priory  with  a  polite 
speecli  about  her  having  made  a  mistake  and 
given  a  much  more  rare  and  costly  gift  than  a 
common  sovereign  ;  but  she  only  said  that  she 
was  glad  such  was  tiie  case,  and  bade  liim  keep 
it  for  the  good  purpose  for  which  it  had  been  in- 
tended ;  it  was  only  right  that  she  should  suf- 
fer for  her  carelessness.  So  Mr.  Puce  had  to 
give  the  poor  a  pound  out  of  his  own  pocket, 
and  add  per  contra  to  his  collection  of  curiosi- 
ties at  the  rectory,  a  Spanish  moidore  of  an  in- 
scrutable epoch,  and  with  a  large  perforation  in 
its  middle. 

Nay,  though  the  widow's  loss  bore  heavily 
upon  her  night  and  day,  she  absolutely  made 
use  of  it  to  excuse  little  economies  and  retrench- 
ments ;  "  now  that  her  dear  Jed  had  been  taken 
from  her,''  tliis  and  that  were  no  longer  neces- 
sary. Perhaps  it  was  partly  due  to  these  pro- 
ceedings (for  any  new  act  of  thriftiness  had 
always  tended  that  way,  as  "a  good  stroke  of 
business"  mollifies  the  city  man)  that  her  voice 
grew  softer,  her  manners  more  gentle  even  than 
before  ;  but  something  of  this  was  doubtless 
owing  to  Agnes.  Mrs.  Newman's  household 
outgoings  for  the  day  having  been  reduced  to  a 
minimum,  that  lady  would  welcome  the  young 
girl  to  her  breakfast  parlor  with  the  sweetest 
smile,  apologizing  for  not  taking  her  to  the 
more  ceremonious  apartment  upon  the  ground  '• 
that  the  sun  spoiled  the  carpet,  for  which  reason  j 
the  shutters  were  kept  closed ;  or,  quite  as  ■ 
often,  as  time  went  on,  the  widow  would  walk 
down  to  the  Brae,  and  spend  "  a  nice  long 
morning"  with  Agnes,  which  was  always  made 
to  extend  over  the  dinner  hour.  It  fortunately 
happened  that,  although  she  had  given  orders 
for  that  meal  to  be  prepared  at  her  own  house, 
it  consisted  of  cold  meat,  which  will  be  "just 
as  good  to-morrow,  my  dear,  as  to-day."  This 
frequent  hospitality,  so  cheerfully  and  ungrudg- 
ingly afforded,  and  tlie  consequent  disappear- 
ance of  a  few  items  from  her  own  initclier's 
bill,  completed  her  j'oung  hostess's  conquest. 
An  individual  that  is  always  glad  to  see  and 
feed  one,  and  who  never  looks  for  any  thing  in 
return,  is  formed  to  be  a  miser's  friend  ;  nor 
was  this  unhappy  woman's  perceptions  so  dull 
but  that  she  understood  the  motives  which 
actuated  her  new  ally.  She  knew  that  these 
were  pity  for  her  forlorn  condition,  and  the 
pleasure  of  returning  good  for  evil. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you,  Agnes  Crawford," 


said  she,  as  they  sat  together  one  afternoon  in 
June  in  the  little  dining-room  of  the  cottage  ; 
for  the  drawing-room  was  avoided  upon  sucli 
occasions  at  the  Brae,  as  it  was  at  the  Priory, 
although  for  far  different  reasons.  Agnes 
would  not  compel  her  guest  to  look  out  \\\\on 
\  those  sands  which  had  been  her  son's  untimely 
grave.  "It  is  very  kind  of  you,  dear,  to  let 
me  drop  in  here,  and  cat  you  out  of  house  and 
home  in  this  manner.  1  am  afraid  I  am  a 
great  expense  to  you." 

I  "  Not  very  great,"  returned  her  hostess, 
smiling;  "j'on  don't  eat  much  more  than  my 
I)et  bird  yonder,  to  whom  I  give  my  breakfast 
crumbs ;  and  if  you  eat,  as  you  complain  that 
good  j\lr.  Carstairs  does — " 

"Well,  so  he  does,  my  dear,"  interrupted 
her  guest,  laying  her  work  down  upon  her  lap, 
to  allow  of  greater  emphasis ;  "  the  last  time 
he  dined  with  me — that  is,  let  me  see,  just 
nineteen  months  ago — he  eat  of  every  dish, 
and  finished  every  one.  I  call  it  most  un- 
gentlemanly.  And  because  there  was  nothing 
in  two  of  the  silver  dishes — put  for  ornament, 
my  dear,  of  course — and  because  there  were 
flowers  in  the  charajiagne  glasses  and  no 
champagne — the  idea  of  giving  a  village  doc- 
tor champagne! — he  was  really  quite  rude." 

"  Mr.  Carstairs  is  a  very  good,  kind  man," 
said  Agnes. 

"  I  don't  deny  that,  my  dear  ;  I  only  say  he 
is  a  most  inordinate  eater." 

"And  I  say  that  you  eat  like  a  robin,  and 
are,  therefore,  no  judge,"  rejoined  Agnes, 
smiling.  "  As  for  my  expenses  here,  they  are 
not  much  more  than  if  I  were  a  doll  in  a  doll's 
house.  Cubra,  it  seems  to  me,  eats  nothing 
but  rice,  so  that  I  almost  suspect  her'of  being 
a  ghoul ;  and  Mrs.  Marcon,  I  am  sure,  is  the 
most  honest  and  economical  of  landladies." 

"  Ah,  well,  that  is  as  it  may  be  ;  every  body 
seems  honest  to  you,  dear.  You  judge  people 
by  yourself.  And  that  brings  me  to  the  thing 
which  I  wanted  to  say  to  you.  Every  day, 
when  I  go  to  my  desk,  this  writing  reproaches 
me— look  at  it.  It  is  what  I  wanted  you  to 
sign  with  respect  to  Mr.  Carlyon's  will." 

"  Your  brother's  will,"  observed  Agnes  qui- 
etly. 

His  name  had  never  been  mentioned  be- 
tween them  since  tlie  day  of  .Tedediah's  death. 
Agnes  had  deemed  it  injudicious  to  press  that 
he  should  be  asked  to  liis  ne])liew's  funeral ; 
but  she  did  not  think  it  right  to  pass  by  his 
sister's  mention  of  him  by  his  surname. 

"Yes,  he  is  my  brother,  of  course  ;  although 
his  conduct  has  not  been  brotherly — that  is,  in 
this  matter,"  added  she  hastily,  in  answer  to 
the  young  girl's  glance.  "I  don't  say  that  I 
did  all  I  could  to  win  him.  But  as  to  disin- 
heriting my  Jed,  that  was  a  shameful  thing, 
and — and — " 

"  Hush  !  my  dear  Mrs.  Newman,  hush!' 
"You    don't    know    what   I    w'as    going   to 
add,"  said  Mrs.  Newman,  tremulously,    "  and 
yet — I  was  about  to  say — with  respect  to  that 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


will,  now  that  I  know  you,  I  do  not  so  much 
wonder  at  it.  That  is  what  I  feel  bound  to 
confess.  He  loved  you — how  could  he  help 
it? — better  tlian  all  else,  and  he  strove  to  show 
it.  And  I  can't  blame  him — that  is,  not  now." 
Here  she  paused,  thinking  of  the  "might  have 
been,"  with  all  its  radiant  hues,  extinct  forever, 
and  the  tears  rolled  down  her  thin  but  not  un- 
comely cheeks.  "You  have  not  signed  it, 
Agnes,  have  you,  yet?" 

"I  ici II  sign  it,  dear  Mrs.  Newman,  gladly." 

"No,  you  have  not,  and  you  shall  not. 
And  what  is  more,  if  John,  my  brother,  dies 
before  me,  I  shall  not  take  this  money.  He 
meant  it  for  you,  and  you  shall  have  it." 

Agnes  smiled  sadly.  "What  is  the  use  of 
money  to  me  V  asked  she. 

"  Of  much  use.  Of  use  to  every  body,  my 
dear,"  answered  Mrs.  Ne\vman,  with  vehe- 
mence :  tlien  added,  tenderly,  "  take  it ;  do 
good  with  it.      Kiss  me,  Agnes." 

She  tore  up  the  paper  as  she  spoke,  and 
rising,  threw  her  arms  about  the  ^young  girl's 
neck.  She  had  overcome,  perhaps,  the  greatest 
temptation  of  her  life ;  but  the  struggle  liad 
been  severe  and  long,  and  she  felt  the  effects 
of  it. 

"There,  I  have  done  it  now,"  cried  she, 
"and  I  feci  all  the  happier.  If  you  like  to 
give  me  any  thing  out  of  it,  you  know,  my 
dear,"  added  she.  cheerfully,  "why  that  is  a 
different  thing ;  you  may  let  me  have  Wood- 
lees,  my  old  home — for  it  is  not  sold,  I  hear — 
to  live  in  rent  free.  But  I  want  every  thing  to 
be  yours  to  do  just  as  you  like  with.  That's  all." 

"  I  hope  none  of  it  will  ever  be  mine,  Mrs. 
Newman.  I  trust  Mr.  Carlyon  may  be  spared 
long  years — and  to  God's  glory — to  possess  it. 
His  is  a  noble  life,  although  it  has  hitherto 
been  i)assed  in  darkness." 

"  You  know  liis  state  of  health,  I  suppose, 
Agnes,  and  what  Mr.  Carstairs  thinks  about 
him  ?  He  heard  from  him  only  last  week,  and 
he  was  saying — " 

"Oh,  yes — yes— do  not  speak  of  it.  At 
least,  not  in  that  way.     I  know  all." 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  distressed  you,  mj'' 
dear." 

The  two  women  sat  for  some  time  in  silence. 
The  hostess  stitching  at  some  baby  clothes 
destined  to  cover  some  expected  little  stranger 
in  the  parish,  for  whom  there  was  small  wel- 
come .  the  guest  darning  an  old  glove. 

"  Agnos,"  said  Mrs.  Newman,  jircse-ntly,  in  a 
very  gentle  tone,  "  I  have  been  a  hard  woman 
all  my  life — except  to  one  who  is  gone — but  I 
am  not  hard  to  you.  I  can  not  bear  to  see  those 
tears.  What  can  I  do  to  comfort  you  ?  Noth- 
ing? Yes,  a  little,  surely.  When  I  pray  to 
God  to-niglit,  I  shall  pray  for  somebody  else. 
Not  for  you,  for  you  do  not  need  my  prayers. 
Can  you  guess  for  whom  ?'' 

"  Yes." 

"Mind,  I  do  not  mean  in  my  old  way,  as 
you  are  thinking.  I  shall  not  thank  heaven 
that  I  am  not  like  him,  unregenerate,  wicked, 


predestined  to  eternal  death  ;  but  as  one  fellow- 
sinner  for  another,  as  a  sister  for  a  brother. " 

"I  am,  indeed,  rejoiced  to  hear  it:  at  the 
same  time,  as  a  Christian  woman,  it  is  only 
your  bounden  duty." 

"  True,  but  one  I  have  not  performed  for 
years.  And  why  shall  I  do  so  now,  Agnes? 
Because  I  really  love  him  ?  No.  Because  I 
honestly  wish  to  be  reconciled  with  him  ?  No ; 
I  can  not  even  say  that  yet.  Why  shall  I  do  it, 
then  ?     Can  you  guess  ?" 

"For  God's  sake,.!  hope,  dear  Mrs.  New- 
man." 

"  No ;  for  your  sake.  And  why  do  I  say  for 
your  sake  ?  You  need  not  answer  me,  my 
dear ;  I  know  all  about  it.  How  very  much 
you  forgot  when  you  sought  me  out  and  brought 
me  comfort ;  how  ven'  much  you  forgave,  which 
even  if  it  had  been  committed  against  yourself 
only —  There,  lean  upon  me  ;  I  am  your  elder 
sister  now,  since  John  Carlyon  is  my  brother 
once  again,  and  you,  my  poor  girl,  love  him. 
It  is  poor  comfort  that  tliis  can  bring  you,  dear. 
A  forlorn  woman,  vexed  with  i)etty  cares,  is  a 
sad  substitute  for  such  a  bridegroom ;  but  it  is 
something.  The  man  that  made  the  breach  be- 
tween us  two  shall  henceforward  be  the  link  be- 
tween us.  I  shall  love  you  all  the  better,  and 
you  will,  at  least,  despise  me  less,  Sister  Ag- 
nes." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


THE    MIDNIGHT    VISITOR. 


It  was  night,  and  Agnes  sat  alone  in  her 
little  drawing-room  at  The  Brae.  Mrs.  New- 
man had  left  her  hours  ago ;  not  long  indeed 
after  she  had  expressed  herself  in  such  unex- 
pected terms,  with  regard  to  her  brother  and 
Agnes.  The  latter  was  genuinely  glad  and 
grateful  that  her  guest  had  confessed  herself 
so  changed  for  the  better;  that  her  mind  was 
so  conciliated,  and  tlse  bitterness  of  so  many 
years  against  her  now  only  relative  had  been 
cast  out.  But  sc  far  as  ]\Irs.  Newman's  demon- 
strativeness  affected  Agnes  herself,  it  was  no  sub- 
ject for  congratulation.  She  felt  humiliated, 
nay,  almost  ashamed.  How  had  this  woman 
guessed  the  secret  which  she  had  striven  so  hard 
to  hide  even  from  her  ow-n  self?  By  what 
outward  sign  had  she  shown  that  she  loved  John 
Carlyon,  when  her  own  heart  had  been  furbiddcn 
to  whisper  it?  And  yet  how  she  did  love  him! 
How  sweet  it  was  to  hear  the  poor  folks  talk  of 
kindly  Squire  John  !  How  welcome  to  her 
was  the  gratitude  that  prompted  them  to  tell  of 
his  open-handed,  generous  ways;  of  his  cool 
courage!  With  what  pleasure  she  hearkened 
to  tlieir  speculations  regarding  the  next  comer 
to  Woodlees,  always  ending  as  they  did,  with, 
"Well,  he  will  not  be  a  better  gentlcmnn  than 
the  young  squire,  whoever  he  be."  Better  to 
them  of  course  they  meant:  but  was  not  that 
something  ?  To  have  been  good  to  the  ])0or  ; 
to  have  been  ready  to  risk  his  life  for  theirs  ;  to 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


have  associated  with  them  without  one  touch 
of  Pride. 

His  hick  of  Religion,  so  far  from  deteriorating 
from  siicli  virtues,  heightcneil  them  rutlier.  If, 
not  being  a  Christian  man,  he  so  behaved  out 
of  the  mere  excellence  of  his  own  nature,  how 
much  the  nobler  was  that  nature.  How  she 
had  treasured  the  few  commonplace  phrases  of 
Mr.  -Carstairs  respecting  Carlyon's  health,  list- 
ening as  though  they  had  no  ])anicu!ar  uttrac- 
tion  for  her  ears.  The  good  doctor  had  spoken 
quite  openly  about  his  patient.  He  had  no  idea 
that  this  girl  who,  to  his  own  knowledge,  had 
rejected  the  yoiuig  squire,  was  any  thing  more 
than  "deeply  interested"  in  her  discarded  suit- 
or. The  letters  he  now  and  then  received  from 
him  were  not  of  a  private  nature,  and  their  con- 
tents were  freely  communicated  to  whomsoever 
they  might  concern.  There  was  always  re- 
spectful mention  of  herself  and  in(|uiry  concern- 
ing her  well-being;  for  the  rest,  a  little  business 
and  a  good  deal  of  gossip  composed  the  whole 
of  these  communications. 

"He  is  no  better.  Miss  Agnes,"  the  doctor 
would  observe  in  answer  to  her  questions, 
"  simply  because  it  is  impossible  he  should  get 
better.  You  can't  stop  a  hole  in  your  heart  as 
you  would  a  leak.  He  doesn't  mention  his 
health,  because  he  knows  this  as  well  as  I  do. 
He  is  leading  a  gay  life,  which  is  the  very 
worst  for  a  man  in  his  situation  to  lead,  and  I 
am  surprised  that  he  has  lasted  so  long.  If  I 
Iiad  known  he  was  going  to  racket  about  in 
London,  I  would  not  have  given  him  so  long 
as  a  year  to  live  ;  and  I. should  not  be  the  least 
surprised  if  my  prophecy  come  true  yet.  The 
Ides  of  June  have  come,  but  they  have  not  yet 
gone." 

To  all  this  Agnes  had  listened  with  a  grave 
but  quiet  face,  and  without  revealing  the  tor- 
ture of  her  heart.  Successful  in  this,  she  had 
deemed  concealment  was  easy  under  all  less 
crucial  tests.  And  yet  this  woman — to  whom 
she  had  never  since  their  intimacy  breathed 
Carlyon's  name,  in  whose  presence  she  had 
studiously  avoided  speaking  of  him,  although 
from  no  fear  of  such  a  consequence— rhad  guess- 
ed the  secret  of  her  love.  Agnes,  though  not 
insensible  to  Mrs.  Newman's  good  intentions, 
was  far  from  thanking  her  for  this.  Hence- 
forward, tiien,  the  sweet  solace  of  an  unshared 
sorrow — for  there  are  sorrows  as  well  as  joys 
wherein  no  stranger  may  intermeddle,  and  wiih 
which  even  a  friend's  sympathy  is  intolerable — 
was  to  be  denied  her.  How  far,  too,  might  not 
this  discovery  extend  ?  Would  vulgar  eyes 
begin  to  watch  her  with  unwelcome  piiy,  vulgar 
tongues  to  utter  words  of  thankless  comfort? 
It  seemed  hard  that,  though  unrepining,  she 
should  not  he  permitted  to  bear  her  cross  alone  ; 
yet  she  was  far  fmm  rejiining  even  now. 

God  knew  what  was  best  for  her  as  for  every 
body.  Perhaps  it  was  to  show  the  powerful 
temptation  of  worldly  love  that  it  was  decreed 
she  should  be  held  up  as  an  example  of  a 
Christian  woman  whose  heart  was  given  to  a 


j  Godless  man  ;  for  it  hud  been  given,  that  was 
I  certain,  and  wjis  John  Carlyon's  still.  Her 
very  being  seemed  to  confess  it  when  the  life- 
blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks,  as  though  in  pro- 
test against  such  a  reflection  as  she  had  just 
made. 

Carlyon  Godless  ?  Impossible  !  God  had 
suffered  him  to  revolt  for  a  wiiile,  but  would 
presently  beckon  to  him  with  forgiving  (ingcr. 
That  was  all.  Presently  ?  It  must  be  very 
soon  then.  It  is  inij)ossible  to  describe  in  words 
the  mental  agony  which  that  last  thought  en- 
gendered. We  grieve,  we  weej),  all  hope  and 
hcaltli  seem  to  depart  from  us,  because  our 
loved  one  has  died,  and  has  left  us  forever. 
That  one  dread  sentence,  "  He  is  Dead  !"  seems 
to  comprehend  in  it  the  death  of  all  that  makes 
our  life  enjoyable,  nay  bearable.  But  how  much 
more  terrible  to  the  truly  religious  soul  is  the 
fear — nay,  the  conviction — that  our  departed 
brother  is  not  only  Dead,  but  Lost. 

Tiie  narrow-minded  foolish  folk  who  make 
up  those  spiritual  cliques  and  coteries  vdiich 
do  their  very  best  to  draw  Religion  into  con- 
tempt, under  jiretense  of  fostering  and  protect- 
ing it,  feel  nothing  of  this.  In  their  heart  of 
hearts  they  either  do  not,  for  the  most  part,  be- 
lieve the  fearful  dogmas  they  enunciate,  or  they 
do  not  realize  the  effect  of  them.  Otherwise, 
being  men  and  not  fiends,  the  sense  of  the  eter- 
nal condemnation  of  the  majority  of  their  friends 
and  acquaintances  (of  which  they  affect  to  be 
convinced)  would  be  ever  present  with  them  ; 
it  would  take  away  their  appetites  (which  it 
certainly  does  not),  would  destroy  their  sleep, 
would  thrust  itself  between  tliem  and  even  the 
most  iiinuccur  ]deasure  :  they  would  never  cease, 
like  Solomon  Eagle,  from  crying  "  Woe,  woe  !" 
As  to  the  few  who  do  realize  what  must  hajjpen 
if  their  creed  be  true,  and  yet  have  learned  to  re- 
gard it  with  calmness  if  not  satisfaction  ;  the 
human  wheat  who  are  not  disturbed  by  the 
doom  of  the  tares  grow  ing  up  around  them ; 
who  say  quietly,  "  They  will  bum,  but  we  shall 
be  in  the  garner" — let  them  beware,  lest  instead 
of  being  the  Elect,  their  cruel  feet  are  set  on 
the  very  road  to  Perdition.  Very  literally  the}' 
apply  the  homely  saw, 

Of  all  our  mother's  children  we  love  ourfclv-ps  the  best, 
As  long  as  we're  provided  for,  the  Devil  take  the  rest. 

But  it  is  doubtful  if  their  .^elfish  complacency 
will  be  rewarded  exactly  as  they  ex])ect. 

Agnes  Crawford's  religion  was  not  of  this 
sort.  She  believed  and  trembled,  but  it  was 
for  others,  not  for  herself;  and  for  the  man 
slie  loved,  above  all.  As  in  some  frightful 
nightmare  we  sometimes  see  one  veiy  dear  to 
us  blindly  walking  toward  the  brink  of  a  sheer 
precipice,  yet  can  not  raise  hand  or  voice  to 
warn  him,  so  Agnes  beheld  the  coming  doom 
of  John  Carlyon.  It  was  rarely  out  of  her 
thoughts,  and  shadowed  them,  even  when  un- 
recognizable there,  with  habitual  and  deepening 
gloom.  She  was  thinking  of  it  now,  as  she 
.s;it  by  the  open  window  in  the  summer  night, 
looking  forth  upon  the  fast-tilling  bay.     There 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


was  no  moon,  and  the  sky  was  islanded  with 
many  a  cloud,  but  by  the  dim  starlight  she 
could  see  the  sweep  and  swirl  of  every  white- 
lipped  wave,  as  it  licked  up  the  sands.  What 
liope  there  was  for  any  tidc-cauglit  traveler 
'twixt  where  she  sat  and  yonder  hidden  shore, 
so  little  and  no  more  was  for  John  Carlyon  dy- 
ing in  his  stubborn  pride.  Upon  one  yet  un- 
covered spot,  not  many  yards  from  land,  stood 
up  some  object  bare  and  tall ;  the  mast  of  a 
fishing- vessel  the  hull  of  which  was  already 
buried  in  the  quicksand  beneath ;  to  not  less 
certain — perhaps  to  scarce  less  speedy  doom — 
was  John  Carlyon  doomed.  Across  the  sea 
and  through  the  misty  veil  that  hung  above  it, 
flashed  down  on  land  and  wave  the  revolving 
Pharos  light ;  now  hid,  now  seen  ;  it  was  placed 
there  for  man's  guidance  and  salvation  ;  but  if 
one  were  so  blind  or  willful  as  not  to  heed  it,  but 
steer  right  on  into  the  gaping  jaws  of  Death  ? 

All  things  she  saw  supplied  the  unhappy  girl 
with  images  of  her  beloved  one's  ruin.  The 
waves  sighed  at  her  feet,  the  night  wind  wailed 
above  her  in  unison  with  her  own  sad  thoughts. 
Even  now  while  she  was  thinking  of  him,  pray- 
ing for  him,  he  might  be  dead  and — 

"Agnes!" 

The  chill  of  fear  seized  all  her  frame,  relax- 
ed and  enervated  with  sorrow,  and  froze  it  so 
that  every  limb  grew  rigid.  She  could  not  have 
stirred  a  finger  to  save  her  life.  What  was 
that  vcrice,  unlike  to  any  that  she  knew,  that 
had  murmured  her  own  name,  close  by  her,  in 
the  very  room?  No  thought  of  danger,  of 
physicai  peril,  crossed  her  mind  ;  she  was  terror- 
stricken  with  a  nameless  awe.  Was  it  then 
true,  as  some  good  Christian  folks  had  averred, 
that  the  spirits  of  the  departed  are  sometimes 
permitted  to  return  to  earth  and  reveal  their 
fearful  doom  to  those  they  have  left  behind 
them?  Was  John  Carlyon  speaking  to  her, 
but  not  in  the  flesh  ?  What  was  this  cold  cur- 
rent sweeping  over  her,  that  made  her  shiver  so, 
as  the  air  of  the  vault  did  where  they  had  laid 
her  father  months  ago? 

"Agnes!" 

She  knew  the  speaker  now;  yet  her  terror 
did  not  abate,  but  was  exchanged  for  apprehen- 
sions of  a  difl'erent  sort.  The  current  she  felt 
was  the  draught  of  air  caused  by  the  unheard 
opening  of  the  door  behind  her.  Her  midnight 
visitor  was  one  of  flesh  and  blood ;  yet  scarcely 
to  be  dreaded  less  than  a  spectre.  How  had  he 
gained  admittance  to  the  cottage  without  her 
knowledge  ?  And  how  had  he  dared  to  present 
himself,  unannounced,  at  such  an  hour  ? 

The  voice  was  Richard  Crawford's  voice,  but 
with  a  difference.  Even  when  she  recognized 
it  as  her  cousin's,  she  could  not  foil  to  mark 
that.  Why  did  he  stand  yonder  motionless — 
an  undefined  shadow — and  not  greet  her,  if  self- 
conscious  of  no  harm  after  so  long  an  absence? 
What  could  this  sudden  visit  mean,  paid  to  her 
in  her  solitude,  at  midnight,  by  one  that  had 
parted  from  her  with  such  studiously  respectful 
mien  and  words?     One  answer  only  could  be 


given  to  such  a  question,  and  her  fluttering 
heart  returned  it,  in  many  a  hasty  beat — "  This 
man  is  mad!" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

WAS   IT   FACT   OR   FANCY? 

Agnes  was  the  first  to  s))eak,  for  her  cousin, 
like  a  ver}'  ghost,  now  stood  silent  and  motion- 
less, as  though  waiting  to  be  interrogated. 
"  Why  don't  you  shake  hands  with  me,  Rich- 
ard ?" 

The  young  man  came  forward  quickly  into 
the  starlight,  and  held  out  his  hand.  She  took 
his  feverish  fingers  in  her  own,  and  holding 
them  fast,  looked  long  and  steadily  into  his  face. 
It  had  grown  very  thin  and  haggard.  His  eyes, 
more  bright  and  prominent  than  she  had  ever 
seen  them,  moved  uneasily  in  their  sockets,  as 
though  seeking  to  escape  her  gaze.  Upon  his 
cheeks  there  was  an  unwonted  flush,  whicli,  with 
his  wild  air,  gave  to  his  beauty  an  almost  lurid 
tinge. 

"  Where  are  you  come  from,  cousin?" 

"London." 

"And  what  brings  you  here,  so  suddenly  and 
so  late  ?'' 

"You." 

"  Well,  but  I  shall  be  here  to-morrow. 
Why  not  come  to-morrow  ?  Go  to  the  inn  and 
sleep  to-night,  for  I  am  sure  you  are  in  need  of 
sleep." 

"I  never  sleep,"  returned  the  young  man, 
slowly.  "  I  lie  awake  and  dream — that's  all. 
I  dream  of  you." 

"How  foolish  that  is  of  you,  Richard  :  when 
you  could  have  come  and  seen  me,  if  you 
chose,  or  at  all  events  haA'c  written  to  me :  I 
have  heard  nothmg  of  you,  you  know,  for  many 
months." 

This  was  true,  but  it  had  not  distressed  her, 
for  Mr.  Carstairs  had  assured  her  that  the 
longer  her  cousin  remained  away,  and  the  less 
communication  between  them  in  the  mean  time, 
the  better  it  would  be  for  the  young  man's  men- 
tal health.  She  knew  that  he  would  visit  The 
Brae  sooner  or  later ;  for  he  had  left  his  sea- 
chest,  containing  his  professional  aj)parel,  in 
charge  of  Cubra,  to  whom  he  had  written  once 
or  twice,  short,  quiet,  sensible  letters,  which  had 
spoken  of  himself  as  well  and  cheerful ;  and  the 
change  in  his  present  appearance  was  the  more 
startling  upon  that  account. 

"No;  I  have  not  written,  Agnes,  but  I  have 
heard  of  you ;  and  that  is  why  I  came  down 
here.  Look  you,"  here  he  raised  his  voice, 
and  struck  the  table  with  his  clenched  ftst,  "you 
have  become  friends  with  that  man's  sister. 
Why  is  that?" 

"  Because  I  choose,  cousin,"  answered  Agnes, 
firmly.  "Mrs.  Newman  has  suftered  much  of 
late ;  she  has  lost  her  only  son.  He  was 
drowned  in  crossing  the  sands." 

"  Her  son  ?  I  did  not  know  she  had  a  son. 
Poor  soul !      I  wish  it  had  been  her  brother." 


CAKLYON'S  YEAR. 


75 


"  Richard !  Do  you  then  wish  him  dead 
who  saved  your  life  in  yonder  bay  ?  For 
shame — for  shame  !" 

"  Yes.  All  cowards  deserve  to  die ;  and 
besides,  I  liate  him." 

"That  you  hate  him,  merely  shows  that  you 
are  imj^ratcful,  Richard.  As  for  the  rest,  John 
Carlyou  is  courage  itself." 

"  What!  when  a  man  will  not  take  an  insult 
when  it  is  offered  ? — will  not  accept  a  challenge 
when  it  is  given  ?" 

"  That  depends  upon  who  insults — who  chal- 
lenges. Have  you  been  seeking  the  man's  life 
who  saved  your  own — wicked,  imgrateful  boy?" 

"  I  let  him  know  what  I  thought  of  liim,  that's 
all,  and  I  gave  him  the  opportunity  of  resenting 
it.     I  say  that  he  is  a  coward." 

"But  you  do  not  think  so,  Richard.  If  you 
have  come  here  only  to  tell  me  falsehoods,  I  have 
no  wisli  to  hear  them." 

"  I  am  come  here  for  something  else,  Agnes. 
Do  not  let  us  quarrel."  Here  his  voice,  erst 
harsh  and  sullen,  sank  and  softened.  "I  am 
come  to  claim  your  promise,  claim  my  bride." 

"My  promise,  Richard  ?"  The  blood  rushed 
to  her  face,  and  her  breath  came  so  sliort  and 
quick  that  she  could  scarcely  frame  the  words. 
"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Ah !  who  is  speaking  folsehoods  now  ?  My 
pretty  one  that  will  not  hint  of  love,  except 
by  these  twin-roses  in  her  cheeks.  ]\Iy  life,  my 
own,  my  all ! — ah,  how  I  love  you  !"  His  eyes 
had  lost  their  shifting  light,  and  beamed  with 
ineffable  tenderness  ;  his  face,  so  sunk  and  hol- 
lowed, seemed  to  have  regained  its  look  of 
youth  ;  his  fingers  played  with  one  bright  tress 
of  hers  that  had  wandered  from  its  fellows,  as  a 
child's  hand  with  a  flower.  "  How  beautiful 
you  are,  Agnes !  Let  me  hear  the  music  of 
your  voice." 

It  was  plain  that  he  might  have  been  gov- 
erned by  her  lightest  word,  did  she  but  choose 
to  humor  him.  If  she  had  but  said,  "  Go,  love, 
and  come  to-morrow,"  with  a  meaning  smile, 
he  would  have  obeyed  her.  It  would  have  been 
easy  to  hoodwink  one  already  so  half-blind  with 
passion.  But  Agnes  shrank  from  a  treachery 
which  to  many  would  have  seemed  a  pardonable 
ruse.  She  would  not  play  fast-and-loose  even 
with  a  madman. 

"  Cousin  Richard,  you  have  long  ago  had  my 
answer  to  the  question  you  would  put.  It  is  un- 
mannerly, and  most  unlike  a  gentleman,  to  press 
me  thus.  I  will  never  marry  you,  because  I  do 
not  love  you ;  and  more,  Richard,  if  you  con- 
tinue to  persecute  me  in  this  unmanly  fashion, 
I  shall  forget  that  you  are  my  cousin — the  only 
relative  I  have  in  the  world — and — " 

"You  will  not  maiTy  me!"  interrupted  the 
young  man,  vehemently;  "and  because  you  do 
not  love  me !  That  is  not  true.  It  is  because 
you  love  another  man  far  better.  Now,  listen ; 
I  will  tell  you  something  about  that  n'an,  whom 
you  think  noble,  pure,  and  truthful." 

"  Are  vou  speaking  of  the  man  you  strove  to 
kill,  Richard?"  i 


"  Well,  that  was  a  lie.  I  did  but  say  it  to 
prove  you — to  see  whether  you  could  love  him 
still,  even  if  he  were  a  coward.  1  irisLcd  him 
dead  a  thousand  times,  'tis  true,  but  then — why 
he  saved  my  life.  My  curse  upon  him.  If  I 
had  known,  when  wc  two  stood  upon  the  less- 
ening sand  yonder,  and  he  was  breasting  the 
swift  tide  in  hopes  to  save  us — if  I  had  known 
what  Mas  to  come  of  it,  and  how  this  man 
should  steal  away  your  heart,  I  would  have 
flung  my  arms  about  you,  Agnes  Crawford,  and 
perished  with  you  in  the  roaring  flood,  before 
your  hand  clasped  his.  I  would,  so  help  me 
Heaven !" 

"  Heaven  will  not  help  you,  Richard,  if  your 
thoughts  are  such  as  these." 

"  And  you  shall  never  win  him  now — be  sure 
of  that,"  went  on  the  young  man  vehemently. 
"  You  hope  so — yes,  you  do — but  that  hope  shall 
bear  no  fruit.  I  tell  you  he  is  not  worthy  of 
you — he  is  neither  pure  nor  true." 

"Is  that  'to  prove  me,'  also.  Cousin  Rich- 
ard ?"  said  Agnes,  pitifully. 

"No,"  answered  tiie  other  with  vehemence, 
"  as  God  is  my  judge.  I  know  this  Carlyon 
well.  I  ought  to  know  him,  for  I  have  been 
his  shadow  for  these  many  months.  It  has 
been  my  life's  work  to  dog  his  footsteps.  Yes, 
a  spy  ;  why  not  ?  I  would  have  done  worse 
things  than  that  to  gain  my  end." 

"  And  what  was  that?" 

"  To  find  him  false  to  you." 

"  There  is  no  bond  between  this  man  and 
me,  Richard,  as  I  have  told  you  long  ago.  He 
can  break  no  faith  who  has  not  plighted  vows." 

"Then  I  suppose  it  is  the  starlight  which 
makes  you  look  so  pale,"  answered  the  young 
man,  bitterly;  "it  is  the  night  air  which  chills 
your  limbs  and  makes  your  A'oice  tremble. 
Otherwise  I  should  have  almost  thought  you 
were  afraid  to  listen  to  the  tale  of  this  man's 
guilt.  If  I  had  been  loved  like  him — nay, 
though  you  loved  me  not,  and  only  because  I 
loved  you,  all  women  have  been  nought  to  me  for 
your  sweet  sake ;  no  face,  however  fair,  has 
striven  within  me  for  one  moment  for  the  mas- 
tery with  the  remembrance  of  yours  ;  nay,  if  I 
have  been  base,  as  your  cruel  eyes  told  me 
awhile  ago,  it  has  been  all  for  love  of  you.  But 
this  man,  though  freighted  with  all  the  treasure 
of  your  heart,  is  blown  about  with  every  whis- 
per from  a  wanton's  lips.  I  have  seen  him, 
side  by  side  with  a  bold  beauty,  her  plastic  hand 
in  his,  murmuring — " 

"  What  I  do  not  wish  to  hear,  sir,"  cried 
Agnes,  haughtily.  "You  may  speak  truth  or 
falsehood.  But  if  you  lie,  you  can  not  be  more 
vile  than  to  have  gleaned  this  shame  and 
thought  to  have  farthered  your  own  aims  by 
pouring  it  in  my  unwilling  ears.  I  despise — I 
loathe  you." 

In  tjie  silence  that  followed  close  upon  her 
angry  words,  she  heard  the  handle  of  the  cham- 
ber-door turn.  The  air,  that  had  been  flowing 
freely  through  the  room  throughout  the  inter- 
view, suddenly  ceased,  a  third  jierson,  then,  had 


7G 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


either  just  entered  or  just  quitted  the  apartment, 
closing  the  door  behind  him.  .She  knew  not 
who  it  was,  but  the  consciousness  of  not  being 
utterly  alone  insjiired  her  with  the  courage  that 
she  was  about  to  need. 

"  You  despise,  you  loathe  me,  do  you,  while 
you  persist  in  believing  this  man  to  be  all  that 
is  chivalrous  and  noble?  and  you  dare  tell  me 
that  to  my  face." 

"  Yes,  I  dare." 

"  That  is  because  you  are  angry,  Agnes. 
A  woman  will  say  any  thing  when  her  blood 
is  up." 

"  Come  here,  to-morrow,  Richard  Crawford, 
and  I  will  tell  you  the  same." 

"  IIow  beautiful  she  is,"  murmured  the 
young  man,  tenderly.  "The  j)assion  which 
mars  most  women's  charms  only  heightens 
hers.  She  loathes  me,  and  yet,  ah  Heaven, 
how  I  love  her! — You  will  never  be  my  wife, 
Agnes,  that  is  certain?" 

"Never,  never." 

"Then  sure  as  Heaven  is  above  us,  no  other 
man  shall  wed  you.     Look  you  here." 

From  his  breast-pocket  he  drew  forth  a 
sheathless  knife  and  threw  it  on  the  table  with 
a  clang.  T])e  starlight  shone  upon  tJie  long 
and  pointed  blade,  and  glimmered  on  the  stones 
that  formed  its  handle. 

"That  is  no  steel  for  common  uses,  Agnes." 
This  young  girl  had  no  fear  of  death,  nor  even 
of  untimely  death ;  but  thus  to  die,  stabbed  Ijy  a 
kinsman,  struck  terror  to  her  inmost  heart. 
"  Oh  Cousin,  would  you  kill  me?" 

"Kill  you?"  returned  the  young  man  with 
a  bitter  laugh.  "  You  must  have  told  me 
truth  indeed,  when  you  said  awhile  ago  that 
you  despised  me.  /  hurt  you  ?  I  would  not 
harm  one  shining  hair  of  that  bright  head, 
although  such  sacrilege  should  cause  the  Devil 
to  forego  his  rights  and  so  should  win  me 
Heaven.  I  only  said  no  other  man  should 
wed  you." 

"  No  man  is  going  to  wed  me,  Richard." 

"  But  there  is  one  who  would  wed  you,  if 
he  could,  and  wliom  you  love.  A  man,  says 
Mr.  Carstairs,  doomed  to  die  early.  And  I 
say  the  same.  You  will  never  sec  him  more, 
be  sure  of  that." 

"What,  wretched  boy,  will  you  then  be  his 
assassin  ?" 

"I  shall  stab  him:  yes.  In  two  days  from 
this,  or  three  at  farthest,  John  Carlyon  will  be 
dead,  and  it  will  be  your  love  that  killed 
him." 

*         *  *  *  *         *         * 

IIo  was  gone.  Or,  had  he  not  been  there  at 
all,  and  was  it  a  mere  hideous  dream  ?  The 
sun  was  shining  full  on  the  window  of  the  lit- 
tle drawing-room,  but  she  was  cold  and  shiver- 
ing. How  long  had  she  lain  u])on  the  floor, 
whereon  she  had  found  herself  when  she 
awoke?  And  did  she  wake  from  sleep  or 
swoon?  No  sign  of  her  late  vi-^itor  was  to  be 
seen.  Upon  the  little  tal  1  •  lay  her  books  and 
work-box,  but  the  shining  dagger  was  no  longer 


among  them.  Had  it  never  been  there,  or  had 
it  indeed  been  taken  away  in  fulfillment  of  that 
horrible  threat?  Tiic  dee])  silence  of  the  early 
morning  smote  her  heart  with  fear;  she  dared 
not  be  alone,  but  seized  and  pulled  the  bell- 
rope.  The  little  bell,  tinkling  violently  just 
outside  the  door,  roused  the  inmates  of  that 
pocket-dwelling  as  effectually  as  any  alarm-bell 
tolled  backward  from  cathedral  tower. 

Mrs.  Marcon,  beheld  for  once  without  her 
widow's  caj)  and  weeds,  hurried  into  the  room. 

"Lor,  Miss  Agnes,  why  what  is  the  mat- 
ter? How  early  you  have  got  up,  and  how 
pale  you  are!     I  am  sure  you  must  be  ill." 

A  moment  after  her  entered  dusky  Cubra  ; 
lier  attire  not  presenting  any  very  striking  dif- 
ference to  that  she  wore  in  the  day. 

"  Gorramighty  bress  us,  Missie  Agnes,  what 
the  matter?" 

"  There  is  somebody  in  the  house.  Some 
man." 

"Robbers!"  cried  the  widow  clasping  her 
hands;  "Heaven  preserve  us,  this  is  what  I 
always  thought  would  come  of  being  a  lone 
woman !" 

"No,  not  robbers,"  said  Agnes,  gravely,  and 
casting  a  suspicious  look  at  Cubra. 

"Lovers!"  exclaimed  the  widow,  with  a 
shudder  of  disapprobation  and  surprise,  "Lor, 
who'd  a  thought  it  with  one  of  her  color!" 

Cubra  did  not  deign  to  reply  to  this  remark, 
whether  she  considered  it  as  a  compliment  or 
an  innuendo. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  locked  both  the  doors 
last  night,  as  usual,  Mrs.  Ma  icon  ?"  inquired 
Agnes. 

"  Oh  yes,  miss,  I  am  always  particular  about 
that;  but  it's  very  easy  to  see  for  yourself." 

This  suggestion  that  her  lodger  should  sat- 
isfy her  own  eyes  did  away  with  the  necessit}- 
of  any  solitary  exploration  upon  the  widow's 
part  which  she  would  probably  not  have  under- 
taken, notwithstanding  the  broad  day-light,  for 
millions  of  money.  Upon  the  other  hand,  she 
was  exceedingly  averse  to  be  left  alone  in  the 
drawing-room  ;  so  the  three  women  accomplish- 
ed the  tour  of  the  bouse  together,  the  whole  in- 
spection— which  was  a  very  thorough  one — oc- 
cupying about  as  many  minutes.  It  was  im- 
])ossible  that  even  a  mouse  could  hide  itself  in 
that  diminutive  dwelling,  and  indeed  they 
found  one  in  occujiation  of  the  kitchen.  Both 
doors  were  securely  fastened  on  the  inside,  a.s 
the  widow  maintained  she  had  left  them. 

"I  suppose  I  must  have  been  mistaken," 
said  Agnes,  when  the  search  was  over;  "I  am 
very  sorry  to  have  disturbed  you  :  but  I  cer- 
tainly heard  a  noise."  , 

"And  got  up  and  dressed  yourself,  without 
calling  us  !  That  was  very  -wrong,  INIiss  Agnes. 
Now  do  go  to  bed  again,  and  try  and  get  some 
sleep." 

They  did  not  suspect  then  that  she  had  been 
up  all  night ;  and  there  was  no  need  to  tell 
tliem.  Alone  in  her  little  chamber,  she  strove 
to  recall  what  had  happened  in  the  drawing- 


i 


CARL  YON"  S  YEAR. 


77 


room.  Every  motion  made,  every  senteme 
uttered,  recurred  to  her  with  a  distinctness 
very  unlike  tiie  remembrance  of  a  dream.  And 
yet  how  could  Kiciiard  have  possibly  concealed 
him'self  in  such  a  house,  on  the  preceding 
evening,  or  how  escaped  through  the  locked 
doors?  Her  agitation  was  such  that  she  could 
not  bring  herself  even  to  lie  down,  but  having 
disarranged  the  bed  to  give  the  idea  that  she 
had  slept  there,  she  once  more  passed  into  the 
drawing-room.  Yes,  in  yonder  corner  he  had 
stood  in  shadow,  and  then  again  by  the  table, 
where  he  had  rested  his  hand  upon  that  very 
volume.  Strange  and  unaccountable  as  were 
his  coming  and  going,  she  could  not  disbelieve 
the  evidence  of  her  senses.  A  sudden  thought 
caused  her  to  lift  the  sash,  which  the  widow 
iiad  closed  and  fastened,  and  lean  out  of  th& 
window.  Yes,  it  was  as  she  suspected.  Upon 
the  little  margin  of  flower-plot  that  lay  imme- 
diately beneath,  between  the  window  and  the 
box-fringed  gravel-walk,  there  were  two  foot- 
marks, with  the  toes  turned  towards  the  cottage. 
Her  late  visitor,  stepping  over  her  prostrate 
form,  as  slie  lay  in  a  swoon,  must  have  escaped 
by  this  means,  letting  himself  drop — as  he 
might  verj'  easily  have  done — from  the  window- 
sill.  She  had  no  farther  doubt  about  the  real- 
ity of  what  had  occurred  ;  of  the  imminence  of 
the  peril  that  threatened  John  Carlyon ;  but  it 
was  necessary  that  others  should  have  none. 
She  felt  convinced  too  that  it  was  by  Cubra's 
connivance  that  her  cousin  had  obtained  en- 
trance to  the  cottage,  or  had  been  harbored 
within  it,  the  preceding  evening.  It  must 
have  been  she  who  had  informed  him  of  her 
growing  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Newman.  Every 
moment  was  precious,  yet  unwilling  to  arouse 
the  suspicion  of  her  black  attendant,  Agnes 
waited  until  she  heard  the  latter — who  was  a 
very  early  riser — leave  her  room  and  busy  her- 
self in  the  kitchen.  Then  she  stole  quietly  into 
the  vacated  apartment,  and  opening  the  chest 
where  Richard's  marine  apparel  was  stored, 
took  out  a  pair  of  shoes,  and  I'lacing  them  in 
Iter  pocket,  sought  the  garden.  Kneeling  upon 
the  gravel-walk  she  compared  these  carefully 
with  the  foot-marks  on  the  mold,  and  found 
them — making  allowance  for  the  fact  that  the 
latter  were  the  impressions  of  high-heeled 
boots — to  correspond  exactly.  Then  hastily 
putting  on  bonnet  and  shawl,  she  let  herself 
out  at  tlie  garden  gate,  and  after  hesitating  a 
moment  at  the  turning  that  led  to  the  Priory, 
passed  on  through  the  awakening  village,  and 
rang  the  bell  at  Mr.  Carstairs's  door. 


CHAPTER  XXTX. 

THE    IDES    OF     JUNE. 

If  Mr.  Carstairs's  audacious  prophecy  re- 
garding John  Carlyon's  lease  of  life  is  to  prove 
true,  it  must  do  so  within  the  next  twenty-four 
hours,  for  after  to-morrow  he  will  have   lived 


his  year.  In  the  mean  time  the  doomed  squire 
feels  physically  iis  well  as  ever,  though  mentally 
much  depressed.  London  life  docs  not  suit 
him:  the  ))leasurcs  of  the  town  have  long  ago 
begun  to  pall. 

His  existence  at  Mellor  had  indeed  been 
aimless  enough,  but  it  was  at  least  natural, 
and  plentifully  sjjrinkled  with  kindly  acts  and 
words  to  those  about  him.  He  missed  the 
homely  honest  faces  which  had  always  a  grate- 
ful look  in  them  when  they  met  his.  True,  in 
Louden  his  hand  was  as  ready  to  give,  his 
heart  to  feci — and  there  is  no  place  where  the 
poor  have  greater  need  of  help — but  the  charity 
which  takes  the  form  of  subscription,  although 
as  advantageous  as  any  personal  aid  to  the  re- 
cipient, has  no  such  healtliy  effect  upon  the 
giver.  He  felt  tlie  bond  between  himself  and 
his  fellow-creatures  loosening  day  by  day,  and 
with  a  sense  of  loss.  And  yet  it  seemed  im- 
possible for  him  to  resume  his  old  mode  of  life 
in  the  country,  with  its  long  periods  of  inaction, 
wherein  his  thoughts  must  needs  revert  to  his 
lost  love.  He  thought  of  her  now,  in  spite  of 
all  distractions  :  how  different  she  was  from 
even  the  best  of  the  fine  ladies  with  whom  he 
was  acquainted  ;  how  superior  to  Edith  Tre- 
herne,  for  instance,  with  her  grand  airs  and 
shallow  feelings.  And  what  was  it  made  her 
so  ?  Agnes  was  beautiful,  indeed,  but  he  had 
seen  faces  quite  as  fair ;  her  mind  was  not  un- 
cultivated ;  she  had  the  accomplishments  of 
her  class  ;  but  he  knew  girls  more  intelligent 
and  more  talented  than  she  was.  Wiiat  was 
it  then  that  made  her  charm  so  magical  ?  It 
was  her  goodness,  without  doubt.  But  how 
did  she  come  by  that  ? 

Vicious  persons  are,  as  a  rule,  much  better 
than  they  seem,  just  as  Puritans  are  much 
worse ;  among  even  profligates  there  is  benev- 
olence, kindliness,  and  even  occasional  self- 
sacrifice.  Amid  the  whirl  of  fashion  (worse 
tlian  what  is  called  "the  vortex  of  dissipation," 
because  it  may  last  for  a  life-time,  which  the 
latter  rarely  does)  there  are  sometimes  little 
quiet  eddies  of  well-doing.  Its  votaries  not 
unfrequently  do  good  by  stealth,  and  would 
blush  to  the  roots  of  tlieir  hair  if  they  found  it 
fame.  But  regarding  the  company  he  was  now 
keeping  in  tlie  most  favorable  light  consistent 
with  truth  (and  this  he  did),  Carlyon  was 
obliged  to  confess  that  not  only  in  extent  and 
permanence,  but  in  kind,  the  goodness  of  Agnes 
Crawford  was  of  fpiite  another  sort  than  that 
of  generous  impulse.  There  was  certainly 
something  about  it— supposing  that  tlie  word 
really  had  a  meaning — which  one  calls  Divine. 
If  it  indeed  was  so,  there  was  no  wonder  that 
Agnes  could  not  and  did  not  love  him.  If  she 
had  done  so,  if  she  had  but  consented  to  bear 
with  his  spiritual  deficiencies,  and  let  him  learn 
from  her  own  lips  the  whole  secret  of  her  haj)- 
piness — but  she  had  not  liked  him  enough  for 
that ;  and  he  would  have  no  other  teaciier. 

He  had,  now  and  then,  of  late  months — 
thinking  "  this  would  please  her  if  she  could 


78 


CARLTON'S  YEAR. 


know  of  it"- — fotiiid  liiinself  in  a  cliiircli,  and 
listened  without  much  profit.  He  hud  been 
taken  thitlicr  too  by  Editli  Trchenic,  to  liear 
her  uncle,  tlie  "snowy-banded,  delicate-bunded, 
dilletantc  deun,  intone,"  with  more  amusement 
to  himself  than  advantage.  Edith  was  going 
to  be  married,  by  tlie  bye,  by  tliat  very  deun  in 
a  few  weeks,  and  to  a  most  eligible  suitor — a 
wealthy  baronet  of  very  ancient  lineage,  and 
who  himself  was  upwaid  of  seventy  years  of 
:igc.  The  match  had  been  somewhat  hasti- 
ly arranged — the  bridegroom  feeling  perhaps 
that  he  had  not  any  time  to  lose — but  the 
happy  pair  were  "  engaged, "  and  the  fashion- 
able newspapers  of  the  previous  week  had  found 
themselves  in  a  position  to  inform  society  of 
that  fact.  So  far  from  this  disturbing  Carlyon, 
it  rather  pleased  him.  His  conscience  hud 
somewhat  pricked  him  as  to  the  part  he  had 
played  with  that  young  lady,  and  he  was  glad 
that  it  had  not  ever  so  slightly  interfered  with 
her  prospects.  Now  if  he  should  hear  that 
some  one  was  about  to  marry  Agnes  Crawford, 
he  felt  that  it  would  well-nigh  drive  him  mad. 
And  yet,  not  only  had  there  been  no  such 
tender  "passages"  between  himself  and  her, 
as  between  him  and  Edith,  but  science  had 
declared  him  to  be  a  doomed  man.  The  grave, 
and  not  the  bridal-bed,  was  waiting  for  him. 
Ilis  lease  of  life  seemed  likely,  indeed,  to  be 
longer  than  was  expected ;  but  it  must  at  all 
events  be  very  short.  "The  shorter,"  thought 
he,  Mith  bitterness,  "  the  better."  He  should 
be  sorry  to  prove  Carstairs  a  false  prophet ;  the 
little  man's  reputation  was  dear  to  him,  he 
knew,  and  he  had  pinned  it  upon  this  very 
point.  It  would  be  quite  a  pity  to  disappoint 
him,  and  cui  bono  ?  What  vista  stretched  be- 
fore him — though  indeed  but  for  a  short  dis- 
tance— in  case  he  should  live  on  ?  A  little 
more  of  this  wearisome  London  life,  so  self- 
indulgent,  yet  so  unsatisfying.  No  ;  he  would 
at  all  events  quit  that.  He  would  just  stay  in 
London  twenty-four  hours  longer,  in  order  to 
give  Carstairs  his  chance,  and  then  if  he  did 
not  exchange  his  snug  rooms  at  the  Albany  for 
some  snugger  chamber  in  Kensal  Green,  he 
would  be  oft'  to  the  Continent.  As  tliough 
Black  Care,  which  sat  so  immediately  behind 
him  upon  Red  Berild  in  Rotten  Row,  would 
not  be  ready  to  cross  the  Channel,  nay,  to  iiy 
with  him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  ! 

If  Carlyon  had  been  a  younger  man,  it  is  i>rob- 
able  he  would  not  have  succumbed  to  these 
melancholy  reflections,  as  it  is  certain  that  he 
would  have  escaped  from  the  fascination  of  a 
hopeless  attachment ;  but  as  matters  were,  the 
companionship  of  his  own  thoughts  was  grow- 
ing less  and  less  tolerable.  In  society,  on  the 
other  band,  he  had  got  to  be  almost  boisterously 
gay,  and  was  voted  by  men  (for  he  rather 
avoided  drawing-rooms  now)  uncommon  good 
company.  When  he  left  them,  the  life  of  the 
party  was  said  to  have  departed  from  it ;  but 
it  was  only  a  galvanic  sort  of  life,  that  expired 
\\\\.\\  the  artifical  stimulus. 


It  was  late  even  for  roysterers ;  the  hum  of 
pleasure  that  succeeds  tlie  roar  of  commerce 
was  quite  hushed.  The  streets  were  so  silent 
that  the  slow-jiacing  policeman  made  stiller  by 
his  tread  their  (piietude.  The  stars  were  shin- 
ing brightly,  although  the  moon  was  young. 
Far  as  the  eye  could  reach  the  broad  thorough- 
fare of  riccadilly  was  tenuntless,  as  Carlyon 
moved  leisurely  ulong  it  homeward.  His  cigar 
was  yet  but  half  consumed —  and  it  is  curious 
how  men,  no  matter  how  extravagant,  object 
to  throw  away  a  good  cigar;  it  was  doubtless 
on  account  of  this  economical  habit  that  he 
loitered,  almost  as  the  guardian  of  the  night — 
whom  he  could  hear  coming  up  behind  him,  at 
a  great  distance — loitered  and  halted,  shaking 
the  area  gates  and  throwing  his  bull's  eye  into 
the  key-holes  of  the  doors.  A  cigar,  with  soli- 
tude and  starlight,  will  make  most  *ien  con- 
templative. Carlyon  bethought  him  of  the 
generations  that  had  trodden  that  broad  street 
before  him,  who  had  come  and  gone,  finding 
even  Piccadilly  no  continuing  city ;  upon  whom 
those  eternal  stars  hud  looked  down  as  the^ 
looked  at  him,  so  purely,  so  pitifully.  And  to 
what  end  ?  Were  not  the  gas-lamps  equally 
useful,  and  much  more  to  be  relied  on  ?  As 
for  beauty,  the  pyrotechnic  display  called  gas- 
stars  had  in  that  respect  clearly  the  advantage 
over  the  heavenlj'  bodies.  And  yet  there  was 
surely  something  in  the  latter  which  the  former 
could  not  boast  of.  Edith  Treherne  was  a  gas- 
star,  but  Agnes  Crawford  was  just  like  one  of 
these :  as  pure,  as  pitiful,  and  as  far  removed 
from  him  and  men  like  him. 

"  Hullo,  you,  sir!" 

This  exclamation  was  drawn  from  him  by  the 
sudden  stepping-forth  of  a  man  from  a  narrow 
alley  on  his  left,  who  placed  himself  directly  in 
his  way.  "There  is  room  for  you  and  me  to 
pass  one  another  in  Piccadilly  to-night,"  con- 
tinued Carlyon,  sternly,  "  without  rubbing  shoul- 
ders, and  you  had  best  take  your  own  side  of 
the  pavement. — Oh  !  I  beg  pardon  ;  I  see,  it  is 
Mr.  Richard  Crawford." 

There  had  been  a  tacit  antagonism  between 
these  two  men  from  the  very  first ;  but  they 
hud  always  been  frigidly  polite  to  one  another. 
The  recollection  of  what  he  owed  to  Carlyon 
hud  restrained  any  expression  of  the  young 
man's  antipathy,  and  the  squire  on  his  part 
never  forgot  that  Richard  was  Agnes's  kinsman, 
and  one  who  was  dear  to  her.  But  they  each 
knew  that  they  were  ri\als  ;  and  the  one  of 
them  that  the  other  had  been  successful  where 
he  himself  had  failed. 

Carlyon  would  have  held  out  his  hand,  jier- 
haps,  and  said  a  few  ordinary  words  of  civility, 
but  the  look  and  manner  cf  the  other  forbade 
that.  His  face,  contrasting  with  the  coal-black 
hair,  wa.s  white  as  marble  ;  his  eyes  burned  with 
the  steady  glow  of  hate  ;  the  iron  steadiness 
of  his  arm,  as  it  burred  Carlyon's  way,  was  a 
menace. 

"  It  is  late,  I  know,  Mr.  Carlyon,"  said  Rich- 
ard, hoarsely  ;   "  but  I  have  waited  for  you  here 


CARLTON'S  YEAR. 


79 


these  four  hours,  and  I  must  insist  ujioii  liaving 
speech  with  you." 

"  Insist,  sir?  However,  we  will  not  quarrel 
about  a  word.  Your  business  must  be  urgent 
since  it  has  put  you  to  sogreatan  inconvenience, 
although  how  you  knew  that  I  was  about  to 
pass  this  way  to-night  is  beyond  my  guessing." 

"I  knew  it,  Mr.  Carlyon,  and  nuicli  more. 
I  have  watched  your  every  movement  for  these 
many  months.  In  town  and  out  of  town,  you 
have  had  a  companion  whom  you  little  sus- 
pected." 

"Indeed!"  returned  Carlyon,  scornfully. 
"  True,  now  I  think  of  it,  I  remember  that  once 
or  twice  of  late  it  has  struck  me  that  some  fellow 
dogged  my  footsteps." 

"  It  was  I." 

"Well,"  rejoined  Carlyon,  calling  to  mind 
something  that  Mr.  Carstairs  had  written  con- 
ceruing  this  young  man ;  "  it  is  fortunate  for 
you  that  you  have  s;aid  as  much.  A  gentle- 
man that  stoops  to  play  the  spy  is  in  the  same 
category  as  one  who,  being  wealthy,  plays  the 
thief.  He  is  not  the  master  of  his  own  actions  ; 
and  therefore — " 

"  Out  of  your  charity  he  may  escape  the 
horsewhip,"  interrupted  the  young  man,  bitterly. 
"  Thank  you.  I  owe  you  my  life,  Mr.  Carlyon, 
and  you  draw  upon  the  bank  of  my  gratitude 
without  fear  of  its  breaking,  I  perceive." 

'•Indeed,  sir,  I  had  forgotten  the  circum- 
stance to  which  you  allude,"  returned  Carlyon, 
hotly;  "and  I  beg  you  will  forget  it  too.  I 
wish  to  have  no  relations  with  you  which  are 
notof  the  most  conventional  sort.  Pray  release 
yourself  from  any  thing  that  may  seem  to  link 
together  you  and  me." 

"I  wish  I  could,"'  replied  the  young  man, 
sternly.  "  There  is  something  else  than  the 
saving  of  my  worthless  life  that  set  me  on  your 
track,  and  brings  me  here.  You  pretend  to 
love  my  cousin  Agnes." 

''Silence,  sir!''  cried  Carlyon,  in  a  terrible 
voice.      "  Let  me  pass,  I  say." 

"No.  You  may  vapor  as  you  please,  but 
you  shall  hear  me  out.  You  told  her,  I  say, 
that  you  were  her  lover,  and  she  believed  you. 
Nay,  /  believed  you  too  until  I  came  to  know 
you.  Till  I  found  you  with  that  girl — Edith 
Treherne — at  Richmond,  I  thought  you  might 
have  loved  my  cousin — not  indeed  as  I  love  her, 
indeed  no — but  with  an  honest  heart.  I  knew 
y^u  were  unworthy  of  her — who  is  not? — but  I 
did  not  think  to  find  you  false  to  her.  And 
yet  how  glad  I  was  to  find  you  so !  If  you  had 
married  that  girl,  I  could  have  blessed  you, 
deemed  you  the  best  friend  that  man  ever  had. 
But  when  I  found  her  plighted  to  another,  I 
hated  you  worse  than  ever,  because  I  knew  that 
Agnes  would  love  you  still." 

"  That  Agnes  would  love  me  still!"  repeated 
Carlyon,  mechanically,  but  in  low  and  gentle 
tones,  like  one  in  his  sleep  that  dreams  a  ])leas- 
ant  dream.  Then  she  did  love  him  after  all; 
for  whose  evidence  could  be  so  trustworthy  as 
that  of  his  rival?     His  anger  was  clean  gone; 


he  began  to  pity  this  unhappy  youth,  who  saw 
in  him,  it  seema>  a  more  favored  suitor. 

Hiciuxrd  marked  the  change  in  his  counte- 
nance at  once,  and  assigned  to  it  the  right 
cause.  He  had  unwittingly  been  the  means  of 
giving  this  man  hope  in  the  very  matter  where- 
in he  would  have  had  him  despair.  Mortifica- 
tion, jealousy,  hate,  seized  upon  his  soul  together, 
and  he  was  no  longer  himself.  His  fixed  in- 
tention upon  leaving  Agnes  two  days  before, 
had  been  (as  he  had  told  her)  to  kill  Carlyon ; 
but  his  better  nature  had  in  the  mean  time  re- 
volted at  such  an  act  of  ingratitude,  more  per- 
haps than  at  the  crime  itself.  All  that  he  really 
wanted  was  to  detach  his  rival's  aft'ection  (the 
strength  of  which  he  greatly  underrated)  from 
its  object.  If  he  could  do  that,  there  would  be 
some  comfort  for  him,  even  although  he  could 
never  call  Agnes  his  own.  The  idea  of  any 
other  man's  possessing  her  was  intolerable  to 
him,  and  he  was  well  aware  that  she  really 
loved  Carlyon.  He  had  also  hitherto  imagined 
that  Carlyon  knew  this,  and  it  had  been  his  pur- 
pose in  seeking  the  present  interview  to  work 
upon  his  rival's  pride  with  the  same  weapon 
which  he  had  used  with  so  fatal  an  effect  in  the 
case  of  his  uncle.  He  had  meant  to  tell  him 
that  if  he  were  to  marry  Agnes  he  would  wed 
the  daughter  of  a  disgraced  and  outcast  man. 
If  this  should  fail — well,  he  had  persuaded  him- 
self that  it  would  not  fail.  He  had  not  dared 
to  look  the  alternative  that  had  suggested  itself 
to  him  in  the  face ;  and  although  the  sight  of 
his  rival  had  set  his  very  brain  on  fire,  he  had 
until  this  moment  intended  to  confine  his  argu- 
ments to  words.  But  now  that  he  found  he  had 
actually  let  Carlyon  know  for  the  first  time  that 
he'was  beloved,  and  the  possible  consequences  of 
such  a  revelation  flashed  upon  him,  he  forgot 
all  his  scruples. 

"You  need  not  smile,  sir,"  cried  he,  pas- 
sionately,"  nor  wear  that  look  of  triumph. 
If  Agnes  Crawford  ever  loved  you,  she  does  not 
do  so  now.  She  knows  that  you  deceived  her, 
played  her  folse,  and  wooed  another." 

"What,  did  you  tell  her?"  exclaimed  Car- 
lyon, seizing  him  by  the  collar. 

"Yes,  I  told  her  all." 

"Tale-bearer,  coward,  spy — " 

The  two  men  struggled  together,  each  hold- 
ing by  the  other's  throat ;  Carlyon's  giant 
strength  had  already  made  itself  felt,  when 
Richard  drew  from  its  hiding-place  the  long 
keen  knife,  the  sight  of  which  had  of  late  so 
terrified  his  cousin,  and  struck  his  antagonist 
two  violent  and  rapid  blows.  Carlyon,  with  his 
hand  to  his  heart,  staggered  and  fell.  Rich- 
ard, transported  with  fury,  would  have  thrown 
himself  upon  him,  and  stabbed  him  a  hundred 
times  ;  but  the  jwliceman  whose  footsteps  had 
been  growing  more  and  more  distinct  through- 
out the  interview,  now  hastened  up  at  the  sound 
of  their  struggle,  and  the  assassin,  throwing  the 
bloody  steel  upon  the  pavement,  fled  from  him 
him  at  utmost  speed.  The  former  having  given 
the  alarm,  proceeded  to  attend  to  the  wounded 


80 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


iiiiin.  lie  was  quite  insensible,  but  the  con- 
tents of  his  card-c:ise  showed  he  was  witliin  a 
very  few  doors  of  iiome,  and  as  soon  as  assist- 
ance arrived,  he  was  taken  to  his  own  iodginj:;s. 

"I  doubt  it's  a  bad  job,"  observed  the  first 
])oliceniiio,  to  liis  fellow,  as  they  emerged  from 
the  gates  of  the  Albany  ;  "  them  snug  chambers 
will  want  a  tenant  before  long." 

"Ah!  likely  enough.  Did  he  speak  e'er  a 
word  when  you  fust  found  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  a  very  queer  thing  it  was  he  said 
— a  pint  to  remember  when  the  time  comes, 
perhaps,  though  it's  dark  now.  "  Carstairs  was 
right,''  said  he,  '■^  after  all." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

NURSK     AND     PRIEST. 

Notwithstanding  the  early  hour  at  which 
Agnes  had  made  her  visit  to  the  village  doc- 
tor, he  was  already  up  and  away,  having  been  i 
sent  for  to  one  of  his  numerous  but  ill-repaying  | 
patients  in  a  neighboring  hamlet ;  so  she  turn-  j 
ed  her  steps  whither  she  had  originally  half  re-  i 
solved  on  going,  namely  to  the  Priory.  But 
here,  too,  she  was  doomed  to  meet  with  disap- 
pointment, for  the  disheveled  page  who  an- 
swered her  summons,  informed  her  that  his 
"  missus"  had  been  bad  all  night  and  that  he 
himself  was  under  orders  to  run  down  to  Dr. 
Carstairs  to  ask  him  to  step  up.  Agnes  knew 
that  Mrs.  Newman  was  not  one  to  send  for 
medical  advice  at  five  shillings  per  visit,  except 
from  urgent  need,  and  hence,  not  without  grave 
misgivings,  at  once  repaired  to  that  lady's 
chamber.  She  found  her  flushed  and  feverish, 
after  a  sleepless  night,  consequent,  in  reality, 
although  she  ascribed  it  to  other  causes,  upon 
the  mental  conflict  and  emotion  of  the  previous 
day — her  determination  to  be  reconciled  with 
her  brother,  and  her  heroic  resolve  to  give  up 
all  claim  upon  liis  property — and  if  not  serious- 
ly ill,  at  all  events  much  too  indisposed  to  re- 
ceive the  information  which  she  had  come  to 
convey  concerning  Richard's  visit  and  Mr.  Car- 
lyon's  danger.  There  was  nothing  for  it  there- 
fore but  to  wait  at  the  house  with  as  much  ap- 
pearance of  unconcern  as  she  could  put  on,  un- 
til the  doctor  came,  which  did  not  happen  for 
some  hours. 

After  the  interview  with  his  patient,  Agnes 
unfolded  to  him  in  private  all  that  had  occurred 
during  the  past  night,  and  besought  his  advice 
and  assistance.  He  did  not  for  a  moment 
doubt  (as  she  had  almost  apprehended  he 
would)  tiie  actual  facts  of  her  narration ;  he 
had  too  high  a  respect  for  her  common  sense  to 
ascribe  any  of  them  to  hallucination ;  but 
from  the  opinion  which  he  had  himself  formed 
of  her  cousin's  character,  he  thought  it  ex- 
ceedingly improbable  that  he  would  be  as  good 
or  bad  as  his  word. 

"  In  the  heat  of  passion,  my  dear  Miss  Ag- 
nes, and  smarting  under  the   bitter  sense   of 


disappointment,  I  can  imagine  this  unhappy 
young  man  making  use  of  any  menace,  and 
meaning,  wliile  lie  spoke,  to  carry  it  into  execu- 
tion. But  any  interval  of  time  with  liim  would 
))roduce  first  irresolution  and  then  rcpentanjce. 
He  is  quite  incapable  —  unless  his  nature  has 
altered  much  for  tiie  worse  of  late — of  seeking 
out  a  rival  with  the  intention  of  slaying  him  in 
cold  blood." 

"But  if  he  is  mad,  Mr.  Carstairs — if  he  is 
downright  mad  ?" 

"Mad  he  could  scarcely  be  to  have  spoken 
so  rationally  as  you  represent  him  to  have 
done.  That  his  brain  is  liable  to  be  affected 
by  any  violent  emotion  I  do  not  doubt ;  but 
that,  on  the  other  hand,  he  has  nothing  of  the 
crafty  and  malicious  scheming  of  the  madman 
about  him  I  feel  positively  certain.  Do  not 
alarm  yourself,  my  dear  young  lady.  Believe 
me  there  is  no  such  danger  as  you  picture  to 
yourself,  but  at  the  same  time  I  will  take  care 
to  put  Carlyon  on  his  guard.  I  will  write  to 
him  by  this  afternoon's  post.  There — will 
that  content  you  ?" 

"  I  suppose  that  is  all  which  can  be  done  ?" 
returned  Agnes,  sighing.  "  But  liow  frii;litful 
a  peril,  how  hideous  a  crime,  is  this  which  you 
talk  of  with  such  calmness.  May  God  havr 
mercy  upon  him,  and  turn  his  heart  while  there 
is  yet  time." 

"Nay,  Miss  Agnes,  if  what  you  fear  be 
true,  there  is  no  question  of  God's  forgiveness 
in  the  matter ;  it  is  his  own  hand  which  has 
afflicted  him." 

Agnes's  white  cheeks  flushed  to  the  forehead  : 
the  surgeon  had  misunderstood  her ;  her  last 
words  had  referred  to  Carlyon  ;  but  she  did 
not  reply.  Mr.  Carstairs  regarded  her  fixedly, 
at  first  with  wonder,  then  with  a  look  of  pity. 

"He  shall  be  warned  this  very  day,  I  prom- 
ise you,"  reiterated  he.  "I  will  go  home  now 
and  write  the  letter." 

And  he  did  so.  That  letter  came  to  John 
Carlyon,  only  to  remain  unopened  on  his  desk, 
because  six  hours  too  late  to  give  effect  to  its 
contents. 

Upon  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  while 
he  still  lay  fevered  and  unconscious,  the  nurse 
that  waited  upon  him  was  called  out — he  being 
fast  asleep — to  see  two  strangers ;  one  an  elder- 
ly gentleman,  who  announced  himself  as  an  in- 
timate friend  of  the  sick  man,  the  other  a 
young  lady,  very  beautiful,  but  with  an  air  of 
intense  mental  suffering. 

"You  need  not  tell  me  who  this  is,  sir," 
said  the  garrulous  old  woman,  dropping  a  con- 
ciliatory courtesy;  "it's  Mr.  Carlyon "s  sister. 
And  very  pleased  I  am  to  see  you,  mum — not 
like  some  nusses  as  might  be  jealous  of  not  be- 
ing let  to  do  every  thing  for  the  poor  dear.  I 
was  the  fust  to  say  you  should  be  sent  for ;  not 
as  I  feared  the  'sponsibility — " 

"How  is  your  i)atient,  woman?"  broke  in 
the  male  visitor,  unceremoniously.  "  I  am  a 
medical  man  myself,  so  you  may  speak  the 
truth  in  as  few  Avords  as  possible." 


CARLTON'S  YEAR. 


81 


"  I  ax  your  pardon,  sir,  I  am  sure,"  said 
the  nurse,  humbly,  and  with  an  evident  effort 
to  curtail  her  loquacity;  "better,  sir,  better; 
but  he  has  had  a  bad  time  of  it,  and  is  not  his 
own  self  in  his  head  yet.  It  is  his  sister  here 
as  will  do  liim  the  most  good,  as  soon  as  he 
begins  to  come  round.  lie  has  done  nothing 
but  call  for  you,  mum,  when  he's  awake,  and 
moan  about  you  in  his  sleep ;  it's  '  Agnes ! 
A^'ncs  !'  with  him  from  morning  to  night." 

Agnes  started  and  trembled  violently,  but 
Mr.  Carstairs  promjitly  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Ver}'  proper  —  very  natural,  nurse,"  said 
he;  "but,  you  see,  you  make  the  young  lady 
nervous,  and  since  she  has  come  to  help  you 
nur.-;e  liim,  that  will  not  do.  At  wliat  time 
docs  Mr.  Martin  make  iiis  visits  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  he  has  been  here  this  morning, 
and  he  will  come  again  at  four  or  so  ;  that  is, 
in  about  an  hour's  time.  But  there  is  no  rea- 
son why  you  should  not  come  and  sec  the  poor 
gentleman  at  once ;  unless  indeed  the  young 
lady  is  not  used  to  a  sick-room." 

"She  is  as  good  a  nurse  as  there  is  in  Lon- 
don, my  good  woman,"  answered  Mr.  Car- 
stairs.  "  Mr.  Martin  and  I  are  old  friends, 
and  I  am  sure  he  will  make  no  objection  to  my 
presence,  so  you  may  lead  the  way." 

His  three  days'  fever,  although  intermittent 
and  at  times  leaving  him  quite  conscious  of 
what  was  passing,  had  wasted  Carlyon's  giant 
form  to  a  mere  shadow.  His  eyes,  fast  shut, 
reposed  in  two  hollow  caves.  His  head  moving 
uneasily  from  side  to  side,  was  shorn  of  its 
brown  curls.  One  large  hand  lay  motionless 
upon  the  coverlet,  bleached  and  thin ;  the 
other  was  thrust  beneath  his  pillow. 

''You  find  your  brother  sadly  altered,  miss, 
I  don't  doubt,"  whispered  the  nurse;  "but, 
bless  you,  he'll  come  round  yet.  The  wound  is 
healing  very  nice.  It  is  deep  enough  indeed, 
but  it  runs  crosswise,  no  thanks  to  the  villain 
as  stabbed  him.  "What  saved  his  precious  life 
was  the  little  Bible  as  he  carried  in  his  breast- 
pocket ;  that  stopped  one  blow  altogether  and 
turned  the  other  toward  the  collar-bone.  The 
doctor  has  the  book,  with  half  the  leaves  stuck 
through,  against  when  the  trial  comes  on,  if 
they  have  the  luck  to  catch  the  scoundrel, 
which  I  should  like  to  pull  his  legs  myself 
upon  the  gallows'  tree.  But  see,  the  poor  dear 
is  waking  up  a  bit." 

With  a  weary  sigh  that  told  more  of  oppres- 
sion than  relief,  the  sick  man  opened  his  eyes. 
Unexpressionless  and  dim  enough  they  looked, 
but  tliey  had  lost  the  glitter  of  the  fever- fire. 

"He  is  coming  to  hissclf,"  whispered  the 
nurse  to  Agnes,  who  mechanically  had  shrunk 
behind  the  curtain  at  the  bed's  head.  Mr. 
Carstairs,  on  the  other  hand,  was  standing  by 
the  fire,  in  full  view  of  Carlyon.  The  latter, 
however,  took  no  notice  of  him,  taking  it  for 
granted  probably  that  he  was  his  usual  medical 
attendant.  With  difficulty  the  sick  man  drew 
forth  the  hand  that  lay  beneath  the  pillow,  and 
looked  piteouslv  at  the  emptv  palm. 
F 


"  That  is  what  he  always  do  when  he  wakes," 
whispered  the  uurse,  with  that  triumphant  zest* 
which  the  ignorant  exhibit  when  imparting  in- 
formation.     "  It's  a  sign  that  he  wants  to  have 
his  hands  washed." 

"  Well,  Carlyon,  my  good  fellow,  don't  you 
know  me  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Carstairs  gently,  as 
he  approached  the  bed.  "  You  have  had  a  bad 
bout  of  it,  but  we  shall  soon  set  you  up  again. 
I  have  come  up  to  London  on  pur])ose  to  see  it 
done." 

"You're  a  good  soul,  Carstairs,"  murmured 
the  sick  man,  smiling  feebly.  "Take  my  hand 
and  shake  it,  for  I  can't  shake  yours.  God 
bless  you !" 

"Those  are  pleasant  words  to  hear  from 
your  lips,  my  friend ;  they  give  me  hope  that 
He  has  blessed  you." 

"I  hope  so.  At  all  events,  I  have  given  up 
the  fight  against  him,  Carstairs.  He  was  too 
strong  for  me,  and  I  have  made  my  submis- 
sion. Perhaps  I  should  have  done  it  earlier,  but 
for — "  Here  he  paused,  and  a  look  of  unutter- 
able tenderness  stole  over  his  haggard  features. 
"  Where  the  bribe  is  very  large,  an  honest  man 
turns  his  head  the  other  way,  and  keeps  it  so 
as  long  as  he  can ;  and  oh,  my  friend,  what  a 
bribe  was  offered  mc .'" 

"  Nay,  nay  ;  I  must  go  away  if  you  excite 
yourself  thus,  Carlyon.  I  do  not  come  here  to 
do  you  harm,  but  good.  You  may  smile  in  that 
lackadaisical  manner,  and  shake  your  head  as 
much  as  you  please,  but  I  say  '  good ;'  and  good 
for  evil,  too,  considering  that  you  have  already 
made  my  prophecy  of  no  effect,  and  intend,  I 
dare  say,  for  conti-adictiou's  sake,  to  get  as  well 
and  strong  as  ever." 

"  Not  so,  my  friend,  do  not  deceive  yourself," 
returned  Carlyon,  gravely;  "nor  do  I  wish  to 
live." 

"  Veiy  well,  we  will  talk  about  that  when 
you  ai-e  convalescent,  and  can  argue  the  mat- 
ter on  fair  terms.  When  a  man  is  so  ill  as 
you  have  been,  he  sometimes  feels  like  one 
who  accidentally  finds  himself  near  a  place  he 
means  some  day  to  visit,  but  had  no  present 
intention  of  doing  so ;  it  is  not  worth  while, 
he  thinks,  since  he  is  so  nigh  the  grave-mouth, 
to  return.  Such  thoughts,  however,  do  not 
become  a  man  of  courage.  You  were  looking 
for  something  beneath  the  pillow,  my  friend ; 
what  was  it?" 

"  A  very  little  matter,  Carstairs ;  a  very 
foolish  matter,  as  it  will  seem  to  you.  But 
there  is  a  little  note  in  yonder  desk — it  lies  on 
the  right-hand,  just  as  you  open  it — which  I 
like  to  have  under  my  pillow." 

Mr.  Carstairs  gave  it  him,  and  as  he  did  so, 
could  not  but  notice  the  handwriting  of  the 
address. 

"  You  know  from  whom  it  came,  my  friend," 
said  the  sick  man. 

"Yes." 

"  All  the  world  might  read  it.  When  next 
you  are  asked  to  dinner,  it  will  be  in  the  self- 
same jthrasc  ;  and  yet  this  is  the  dearest  thing 


82 


CAELYON'S  YEAR. 


I  have.  They  are  the  first  words  and  the  last 
— save  one,  which  you  have  seen — that  I  ever 
liad  from  her.     God  bless  her!" 

"If  she  were  to  come  and  nurse  you,  Car- 
lyon,  in  your  sister's  place,  but  at  your  sister's 
special  wish,  what  would  you  say  tiien?" 

"I  would  say  that  heaven  had  wrought  a 
monstrous  miracle,  and  sent  an  angel  with  the 
devil's  own  credentials — " 

"  Hush,  hush,  Mr.  Carlyon,"  said  Agnes, 
stepping  from  behind  her  screen;  "do  not 
wrong  your  sister  thus.  God  has  touched 
her  heart,  as  I  had  hoped  he  had  touched 
yours,  and  she  loves  you  and  prays  to  Him  for 
you." 

Carlyon's  face  was  lit  up  with  a  great  glow 
of  joy,  and  he  strove  to  raise  himself  to  greet 
her;  but  the  effort  was  beyond  his  strength, 
and  he  fell  back  with  a  feeble  groan. 

"Remember,  young  lady,"  interposed  Mr. 
Carstairs,  firmly,  "you  are  Mr.  Carlyon's  nurse, 
and  not  his  priest,  here.  I  must  have  no  such 
talk  as  this — at  least,  not  now." 

And  Agnes  obeyed  him;  "Sister  Agnes," 
as  Carlyoji  called  her  throughout  her  mission, 
and  as  Mr.  Martin  came  to  call  her  when  he 
found  how  well  she  deserved  the  title. 

A  breezy,  jocund,  health-diffusing  man  was 
the  doctor — an  old  friend  and  fellow-student 
of  Mr.  Carstairs,  as  it  happened — who,  living 
close  by,  had  been  called  in  by  happy  chance 
to  the  wounded  man. 

After  a  day  or  two,  the  country  practitioner 
went  home,  feeling  sure  that  he  had  left  his 
friend  in  safe  hands,  and  leaving  behind  him 
Agnes  and  Widow  Marcon,  who  had  accom- 
panied the  former  to  town,  since  her  suspicions 
of  Cubra's  having  some  confederate  hand  in 
the  recent  calamity,  forbade  her  taking  her  own 
attendant.  It  was,  doubtless,  very  "bold,"  and 
"dangerous,"  and  "indecorous,"  in  the  e3'es 
of  some  people  (although  Mrs.  Newman  had 
both  approved  of  and  pressed  her  doing  so),  that 
she  should  help  to  nurse  Carlyon  every  day; 
but  I  do  not  think  Agnes  was  much  distressed 
by  that  consideration — having  a  Great  Adviser 
whom  she  was  wont  to  consult  in  all  matters — 
even  if  she  entertained  it  at  all.  And  indeed 
such  misgivings  were  totally  out  of  place.  It 
was  true  that  tlie  sick  man  grew  stronger,  and 
bade  fair  to  make  a  complete  recovery  from  his 
wound ;  but  he  still  considered  himself,  as  did 
Agnes  likewise,  as  a  doomed  man.  His  heart 
had  troubled  him  of  late  so  incessantly  that  he 
could  not  forget  that  his  days  were  surely  num- 
bered ;  and  she,  so  soon  as  he  could  bear  it, 
had  pressed  the  claims  of  religion  upon  him 
with  the  earnestness  inspired  by  the  same  con- 
viction. Their  behavior  was  ver}'  far  from  that 
of  lovers.  She  read  to  him  from  that  same 
book  whose  resistance  to  the  cruel  steel  had 
saved  his  life,  and  he  listened  like  one  upon 
whose  favored  ears  fall  the  very  harmonies  of 
heaven ;  but  all  her  influence,  all  her  charms, 
were  made  to  serve  that  cause  alone  to  which 
Carlyon  was  slowly  but  surely  being  won  ;  she 


had  no  thought,  no  dream  of  winning  him,  ex- 
cept for  God. 

He  had  received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Newman, 
the  contents  of  which,  ])crhaps,  penetrated  him 
more  than  all  else  with  the  sense  of  this  young 
girl's  goodness.  He  had  reproached  himself 
somewhat  with  not  having  written  to  liis  sister 
upon  the  occasion  of  Jcdediah's  death  ;  that 
opportunity  passed,  it  seemed  well-nigh  impos- 
sible that  they  should  become  friends  ;  and  lo ! 
now  the  overture  of  reconciliation  had  actually 
emanated  from  her.  Who  but  Agnes  could 
have  brought  this  about,  and  by  what  other 
means  than  those  to  whicli  she  herself  attribu- 
ted it — that  faith  by  wliich  miracles  were  said 
to  have  been  wrought  of  old  ? 

Agnes  told  him  of  Mrs.  Newman's  revela- 
tion to  her  concerning  the  disposal  he  had 
made  of  his  property  by  will,  and  of  that  lady's 
subsequent  self-denial. 

"I  could  not  have  believed  it,"  said  he, 
gravely,  "from  any  other  lips  than  yours. 
What  a  pang  it  must  have  caused  poor  Meg !" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Carlyon,"  said  Agnes,  with  an 
answering  smile  ;  "  but  you  must  not  inflict 
it  a  second  time.  Under  no  possible  circum- 
stances should  I  have  taken  or  would  I  take  one 
shilling  of  that  which  she  so  highly  values,  and 
which  should  naturally  revert  to  her;  but  the 
gift  must  come  directly  from  your  hands,  and 
not  through  mine." 

"What,  must  I  make  another  will  then,  and 
leave  you  nothing?" 

"Certainly.  What  right  have  I  to  what 
you  have  to  leave  ?  Nay,  even  what  need  of 
it?" 

"  You  will  let  me  bequeath  you  Red  Berild, 
however,  the  horse  that  saved  your  life  to  bless 
mine — the  horse  that  you  sketched  on  Grey- 
crags  lawn  in  those  happy  summer  days, 
Agnes?" 

"Yes;  jou  may  leave  me  Red  Berild,  Mr. 
Carlyon,  if  my  acceptance  of  it  will  please 
you,"  said  she,  softly.  "I  have  been  to  see 
him  since  I  came ;  Mr.  Carstairs  took  me  ;  the 
noble  creature  looked  so  wistfully  for  the  mas- 
ter that  we  could  not  bring." 

"Poor  Berild!  You  will  ride  him  for  my 
sake,  Agnes ;  he  is  very  quiet,  and  after  a  lit- 
tle you  will  find  that  you  may  guide  him — as 
you  did  his  owner — with  a  word." 

So,  like  two  children  in  a  church-yard,  into 
whom  enters  no  natural  thought  of  mirtli  and 
play,  because  of  the  open  grave  close  by  them, 
and  of  its  expected  tenant,  Agnes  and  John 
Carlyon  spoke  not  of  earthly  love  and  scarce 
of  this  world  at  all. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A  CONSULTATION  AND  ITS  RESULTS. 

When  Carlyon  was  well  enough  to  lie  on 
the  sofa,  and  take  his  meals  with  the  enthu- 
siasm incident   to  a  convalescent  after  fever, 


Cx\.RLYON'S  YEAR. 


83 


Mr.  Martin  announced  his  own  occupation  to 
be  gone.  "  I  never  stay  wiiere  I  am  not 
really  wanted,"  said  the  cheery  surgeon,  "  but 
if  you  like  being  doctored,  I  will  send  you  a 
man  who  will  stick  by  you,  and  give  you  pills 
as  long  as  you  choose  to  take  them.  In  my 
opinion  you  are  cured." 

"Cured  of  my  wound?"  returned  Carlyon, 
slowly.  "Yes,  thanks  to  you,  sir,  I  feel  that 
I  am.  This  is  not  the  first  time  that  1  have 
been  deeply  indebted  to  your  profession." 

"Ah.  Well,  I  hope  you'll  never  need  to 
see  any  one  of  them  again." 

"Thank  you,"  returned  the  patient,  smiling. 
"  I  shall  be  always  glad,  however,  to  see  you 
again,  Mr.  Martin — that  is,  at  dinner ;  and 
likewise  our  good  friend  Carstairs." 

"  Ah,  capital  fellow,  Carstairs,"  assented  the 
surgeon,  cheerfully,  at  the  same  time  walking 
to  the  door  and  opening  it  as  though  to  make 
sure  that  the  nurse  was  out  of  ear-shot.  Agnes 
had  been  sent  out  l\v  his  own  edict  that  after- 
noon for  a  "  constitutional"  with  Mrs.  Marcon, 
in  the  park,  for  the  recent  change  from  her 
usual  active  habits  at  jMellor  had  begun  to  tell 
upon  her  somewhat.  ' '  A  capital  good  fellow 
is  Carstairs,  and  a  man  of  science  too,  but 
crotchety ;  between  ourselves,  sir,  infernally 
crotchety.  We  were  students  together  at 
Guy's." 

"Were  you,  indeed?"  rejoined  the  sick 
man,  languidly,  and  thinking  to  himself  how 
long  Agnes  had  been  away.  "What  an  im- 
mense time  ago  it  seems." 

"Eh!  well,  it^s  not  so  long,  sir,"  rejoined 
Mr.  Martin,  sharply.  "  I  don't  suppose  either 
of  us  arc  fifteen  years  older  than  yourself. 
But  what  I  was  going  to  say  is,  that  pven  then 
Carstairs  was  very  like  some  sexagenarian 
physician,  who  has  devoted  his  whole  energies 
to  one  branch  of  disease,  and  has  got  to  be- 
lieve that  all  mankind,  either  directly  or  in- 
directly, dies  of  it.  With  doctors  who  are  ladies' 
doctors,  tliis  creed  is  of  course  restricted  by  the 
sex  of  their  patients  (to  which,  by  the  bye,  it 
is  my  opinion  that  some  of  them  assimilate  in 
time,  and  become  old  women),  but  otherwise 
this  fanaticism  has  no  bounds.  With  a  young 
practitioner,  however,  it  is  not  usual  to  make 
one  disease  swallow  up  all  others,  like  so  many 
Pharaoh's  serpents ;  and  yet  Carstairs,  even  as 
a  student,  entertained  this  curious  notion. 
We  used  to  call  him  Angina  Carstairs." 

"Ah,  indeed,"  said  Carlson,  dryly.  "He 
was  efifeminate,  then,  as  a  young  man,  was 
he?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  sir,  but  he  thought  every 
body  was  sure  to  die  of  artfjina  pectoris — he  be- 
lieved every  body — even  those  who  had  no 
hearts,  like  our  hospital  porter,  who  was  a 
savage — had  disease  of  the  heart." 

For  the  first  time  since  his  wound,  Carlyon 
sprang  up  to  a  sitting  posture,  supporting  him- 
self by  one  hand,  while  the  other  was  pressed 
tightly  to  his  side. 

"Oh,  sir,"  said  he,  "do  not  hold  out  to  me 


a  false  hope ;  even  now  I  feel  that  Carstairs 
has  told  me  nothing  but  the  truth." 

"What,  that  you  would  be  a  dead  man  a 
fortnight  ago!  That,  Miss  Agnes  tells  me, 
was  his  cheerful  prognostication,  and  yet  you 
have  eaten  a  very  tolerable  breakfast  for  a 
^  jiost  viortem.'  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Martin,  that  I 
have  not  heart  disease  ?" 

"By  your  change  of  color,  my  dear  sir,  and 
the  pain  you  are  evidently  feeling  in  that  side, 
I  should  be  inclined  to  think  that  you  have," 
answered  the  surgeon,  quietly.  "If  I  chose 
to  use  the  stethoscope,  I  could  undoubtedly  tell 
you  for  certain  ;  but  that  is  not  my  line.  If 
the  young  gentleman's  dagger  had  gone  tlirough 
your  heart,  it  would  have  been  my  business  to 
pronounce  you  dead.  No  jihysician — who  had 
any  respect  for  himself,  and  the  profession — 
would  have  ventured  to  have  done  so.  But 
this  is  no  surgical  case.  If  you  take  my  ad- 
vice, you  will  allow  me  to  call  in  Dr.  Tlirob. 
He  knows  more  about  heart  disease  than  any 
man  in  Great  Britain  ;  and  there  is  this  great 
advantage  about  him,  that  even  if  you  have  not 
got  it  he  will  prescribe  for  you  as  if  you  had. 
I  am  sure  it  will  be  a  great  satisfaction  to  your 
feelings  to  procure  the  opinion  of  a  man  like 
Throb.  And  besides,  my  dear  sir,  you  will  be 
■witness  of  a  consultation  which,  of  itself,  is 
quite  as  good  as  a  play — although,  to  be  sure, 
it's  a  little  dearer.'^ 

"  If  you  think  a  consultation  will  be  of  any 
use — "  began  Carlj-on. 

"  I  don't  think  it  will,"  interrupted  the  sur- 
geon, irritably.  "A  duel  is  no  sort  of  use,  for 
instance,  but  cA'ery  body  calls  it  a  satisfaction. 
It  settles  the  matter  one  way  or  another,  at  all 
events.     Come,  let  me  call  in  Dr.  Throb." 

To  this  proposition,  Carlyon,  not  very  eager- 
1}',  gave  assent,  and  Dr.  Throb  condescended  to 
make  an  appointment  at  the  Albany  for  the  aft- 
ernoon of  the  day  after  the  morrow.  Tiiat 
great  man,  so  far  as  physical  stature  went,  was 
a  very  little  one ;  much  smaller  than  Mr.  Car- 
stairs, and  round  as  a  ball ;  but  his  grey  eyes 
were  large  enough  for  a  policeman's  lantern,  and 
roved  fiercely  about  under  his  shaggy  brows,  as 
though  in  search  of  the  villain  who  might  ven- 
ture to  contradict  him.  Even  the  presence  of 
Agnes  failed  to  soften  that  terrible  glance,  al- 
though he  gave  her  a  re-assuring  nod,  as  if  to 
guarantee  her  personal  safety,  menaced  by  his 
tremendous  arrival.  He  had  been  previously 
closeted  with  i\Ir.  Martin — for  a  medical  con- 
sultation is  uncommonly  like  one  of  those  chil- 
dren's games  wherein  two  little  folks  go  out  of 
the  room  and  whisper  together,  and  come  in  and 
guess,  and  then  go  out  and  guess  again — .nnd 
perhaps  that  gentleman  had  softened  the  ba- 
shaw's heart  toward  the  poor  girl.  But  he  had 
not  softened  it  at  all  toward  Carlyon.  Dr. 
Throb  marched  in,  like  a  drum-major  at  the  head 
of  an  invading  army;  glared  upon  his  patient — 
indignant  perhaps  at  his  being  so  large  ;  shook 
his  learned  head,  like  a  terrier  with  a  rat  in  his 


84 


CAKLYON'S  YEAR. 


jaws,  and  then  turned  to  Mr.  Martin  and  said 
"Yes,"  decisively,  although  the  surgeon  had 
said  nothing  whatever.  The  great  man  had 
previously  addressed  the  salutation  "  Humph!" 
to  Carlyon  himself,  so  that  there  was  no  neces- 
sity for  any  farther  courtesies,  and  he  proceeded 
at  once  to  business.  To  see  him  cast  himself, 
stethoscope  in  hand,  upon  his  victim,  was  to 
witness  a  gladiatorial  exhibition  ;  but  in  reality 
his  every  movement  was  directed  with  the  ut- 
most nicety  and  skill.  This  examination  ended. 
Dr.  Throb  put  certain  questions  to  the  patient 
regarding  his  own  symptoms,  exactly  as  though 
he  were  himself  the  chief  inquisitor,  and  Carlyon, 
a  heretic,  doomed,  upon  the  slightest  show  of 
hesitation,  to  the  thumb-screws,  rack,  and  stake. 
Then  pursing  his  lips,  and  giving  that  mysterious 
nod  to  the  surgeon,  which  the  lady  of  the  house 
gives  to  her  principal  female  guest  before  leaving 
the  dinner-table,  the  physician  led  the  way  to 
the  consulting-room.  As  the  door  closed,  Ag- 
nes stole  to  the  sofa  and  took  the  sick  man's 
hand.  There  was  something  in  this  Goth  of  a 
doctor's  manner  which  had  given  her  hope. 

"I  feel,"  said  slie,  calmly,  "an  uncommon 
confidence  in  that  man's  judgment." 

"So  do  I,"  answered  Carlyon,  smiling. 
"But  indeed,  if  his  opinion  is  not  to  be  relied 
upon,  he  impugns  the  beneficence  of  the  whole 
scheme  of  creation.  Such  a  terrible  Turk  would 
otherwise  scarce  be  permitted  to  live." 

"  If  his  verdict  should  agree  with  that  of  i\Ir. 
Carstairs,"  said  she,  in  trembling  tones,  "you 
will  not  receive  it  as  you  did  his,  I  know." 

"No,  Agnes.  Thanks  to  you,  it  will  no 
longer  be  with  dogged  submission.  I  shall  say 
— and  honestly  feel  it — God's  will  be  done." 

Slie  had  scarcely  time  to  resume  her  former 
position  when  back  stalked  the  little  doctor, 
with  drums  beating  and  colors  flying,  and  a  tri- 
umphant flourish  of  trumpets.  The  chamber 
had  evidently  been  given  up  to  pillage  ;  but  was 
the  life  of  its  tenant  to  be  spared? 

' '  Humph  ! "  said  he.  "  You  have  heart  com- 
plaint, Mr.  Carlyon." 

"I  quite  expected  to  hear  you  say  so.  Dr. 
Throb.  My  friend  and  medical  adviser  in  the 
country  gave  me  to  understand — " 

"Pooh,"  interrupted  the  great  man.  "He 
pledged  his  'professional  reputation,'  didn't  he, 
tliat  you  wouldn't  live  six  months  ?" 

"He  said  a  year,  sir." 

"  He  might  just  as  well  have  said  a  fortnight. 
Medicine  is  not  an  exact  science  like  mathe- 
matics ;  and  he  was  wrong,  you  sec.  He  has 
forfeited  his  professional  reputation  —  which 
most  country  practitioners  would  be  very  glad 
to  do,  and  start  afresh.  He  ought  to  be  under 
great  obligations  to  you — this  Mr.  Whatshisname 
— Farstares." 

"But  he  was  right  so  far  as  my  baring  heart 
complaint?'' 

"  Of  course  he  was  ;  no  man  with  ears  could 
be  wrong  about  that,  sir.  You  have  heart  com- 
plaint ;  but  what  of  that?  You  may  die  of  it, 
of  course — you   must  die  of  something,  I  sup- 


pose— but  you  may  also  live  with  it  for  a  quar- 
ter of  a  century,  and  die  of  drink  at  last.  I 
have  known  a  worse  case  than  yours  where  the 
patient  lived  for  longer  than  that,  and  was 
eventually  hung.  Good-morning,  sir ;  good 
morning,  ma'am."  And  away  marched  the  lit- 
tle doctor,  with  a  nod  of  great  severity,  to  fresh 
fields  of  conquest  and  subjugation.  But  when 
he  reached  the  outer  door  he  turned  round 
sharply  to  Mr.  Martin,  who  had  reverently  fol- 
lowed him  so  far,  with — "  I  say,  my  good  fel- 
low, can  he  aff"ord  this  ?"  and  he  took  out  a 
crumpled  note,  which  he  had  received  in  fee 
from  Carlyon,  by  a  most  dexterous  backhanded 
evolution,  and  without  moving  a  muscle  of  his 
face.  But  it  was  one  of  this  great  man's  weak- 
nesses to  object  to  take  large  fees  from  persons 
of  moderate  means,  or  any  fee  at  all  from  j)Oor 
folks. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  can  afford  it,"  said  the  other, 
laughing. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  for  both  our  sakes," 
returned  the  little  man,  with  a  significant  action 
of  the  left  eyelid. 

With  his  professional  brethren,  and  when  re- 
moved from  the  observation  of  patients.  Dr. 
Throb  unbent  a  good  deal.  He  was  whispered 
to  be  invaluable  at  medical  dinners — the  only 
festive  occasions  he  ever  patronized — and  there 
was  even  a  story  current,  among  the  more  au- 
dacious students  of  his  hospital,  that  he  had 
once  sung  a  comic  song. 

When  Mr.  INIartin  went  back  to  his  patient 
he  found  him  as  sad  and  silent  as  though  the 
sentence  of  Dr.  Throb  had  been  for  his  imme- 
diate execution,  rather  than  a  dismissal  upon 
his  personal  recognizances,  to  come  up  when 
Justice  More  chose  to  send  for  him — as  it  really 
was.  Agnes  too  was  paler  and  more  thought- 
ful than  she  had  looked  throughout  the  consul- 
tation. His  entrance  seemed  to  be  a  relief  to 
both  parties. 

"  Kice,  agreeable,  aff'able  person.  Dr.  Throb, 
is  he  not  ?"  inquired  the  surgeon,  cheerfully. 

"  Very  much  so,"  said  Carlyon,  absently. 

"  I  dare  say  he  is  very  clever,"  observed  Ag- 
nes, evasively.  "I  feel  a  great  confidence  in 
his  judgment.  If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  ring 
for  nurse,  Mr.  Martin,  I  think  I  will  go  to  my 
lodgings,  as  Mrs.  Marcon  will  be  anxious  to  hear 
what  his  verdict  is." 

She  cast  a  glance  at  Carlyon  full  of  unspeaka- 
ble emotion,  but  he  had  closed  his  eyes  and  lay 
back  on  the  pillow,  as  though  overcome  by 
weakness.  She  rose  softly,  and  left  the  room 
as  the  nurse  entered  it.  Mr.  Martin  followed 
close  upon  her. 

"  As  Mrs.  Marcon  has  not  yet  come  for  you," 
said  he — that  respectable  old  lady  being  in  the 
habit  of  calling  for  her  every  evening  at  six 
o'clock  with  the  regularity  of  clock-work,  "  you 
must  allow  me  to  see  you  home,  Miss  Agnes." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  going  home  alone,  Mr. 
Martin,  and  I  know  your  time  is  valuable,"  an- 
swered Agnes,  quietly. 

"You  would  also  rather  be  alone  just  now. 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


85 


would  you  not,  my  dear  young  lady?  That's 
the  very  reason  why  I  am  going  with  you.  I 
have  got  something  of  importance  to  say  to  you 
upon  tiie  road." 

When  they  had  fairly  started,  and  she  had 
placed  her  fingers  lightly  on  his  arm,  the  surgeon 
patted  them  in  a  rc-assuring  manner,  and  hcgan 
as  follows : 

"You  are  trembling,  my  good  girl,  and  all  in 
a  flutter,  and  it  is  not  about  me,  I  know.  If  I 
was  twenty  years  younger,  and  did  not  happen 
to  have  a  wife  alreadj',  that  reflection  would  dis- 
tress me,  but  as  it  is,  I  am  only  distressed  about 
yourself.  You  said  just  now  that  you  have  con- 
fidence in  the  judgment  of  Dr.  Tiirob ;  and,  as 
generally  happens,  you  are  quite  right.  lie  is 
a  very  wise  man  in  his  vocation,  and  can  tell  by 
the  look  of  a  young  lady,  without  even  so  much 
as  feeling  her  pulse,  whether  there  is  any  thing 
the  matter  with  lier  heart.  Now  as  we  were  in 
consultation  together,  when  (between  ourselves) 
wc  doctors  talk  about  almost  any  thing  except 
the  patient,  he  remarked  that  there  was  some- 
thing the  matter  with  yours.  It's  not  my  line 
of  business,  you  know,  but  I'm  bound  to  say 
that  he  only  corroborated  my  own  observation. 
There,  don't  cry — or,  if  you  must  cry,  put  your 
veil  down.  The  symptoms  are  obvious  ;  a  gen- 
eral practitioner  in  the  country  (as  Throb  would 
say)  could  scarcely  make  a  mistake  in  your 
diagnosis.  You  are  in  love  with  my  poor  pa- 
tient yonder.  Now,  my  dear  cliild,  I  am  old 
enough  to  be  your  grandfather,  so  that  there  is  no 
occasion  for  embarrassment  with  me ;  but  if  you 
tremble  in  that  way  I  shall  be  obliged  to  call  a 
cab,  and  I  can  never  hear  a  word  that's  said  in 
a  cab.  You  arc  in  love  with  John  Carlyon,  I 
say,  and  I  needn't  tell  you  that  he  is  in  love  with 
you.  Well,  why  did  you  say  '  no'  when  he 
asked  you  to  marry  him,  some  ten  minutes  ago? 
I  don't,  of  course,  wish  to  pry  into  private  mat- 
ters, but  if  it's  religion  —  or  rather  (as  you 
wrongly  imagine)  the  want  of  it  in  him — " 

"  No,  sir,  it  is  not  that,  sir,  now,  thank  God," 
interrupted  Agnes,  earnestly. 

"Then  what  the  dickens  is  it?"  inquired  the 
surgeon,  with  irritation. 

"  Sir,  there  are  two  reasons,  since  you  force 
me  to  speak  so  openly,"  said  Agnes,  with  firm- 
ness ;  "but  I  deny  your  right — " 

"  Of  course,  my  good  young  lady,  I  have  no 
right,"  interposed  the  surgeon,  briskly,  and  once 
more  patting  her  fingers  ;  "but  it's  my  privilege. 
You'll  find  it  in  all  the  diplomas.  Now,  what 
are  the  two  reasons?" 

"  One  is,  sir,  that  I  can  not  marry  the  man 
whose  life  has  been  attempted  by  one  of  my 
own  blood,  the  only  relative  I  have  in  the 
world." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  You  make  your  relative's 
quarrel  your  own.  Since  your  cousin  has 
failed  to  kill  this  man,  you  will,  at  all  events, 
deny  him  all  that  makes  his  life  worth  having. 
That  is  the  true  Corsican  fashion  ;  but  I  should 
doubt  whether  it  has  the  approbation  of  the 
Christian  Church." 


"  I  mean,  sir,"  explained  Agnes,  gravely, 
"  Mr.  CarlyoB  has  never  spoken  to  me  about 
lliciiard  ;  never  hinted  at  whose  hand  laid  him 
upon  what  might  have  pro\x;d  his  death-bed ; 
but  there  are  times  when  I  feel  tiiat  I  have  al- 
most been  his  murderess." 

"Tut,  tut;  you  could  not  help  two  men 
falling  in  love  with  you — I  dare  say  a  dozen 
have  done  it — nor  could  you  prevent  one  of 
them  going  mad  after  sun-stroke.  The  rest  of 
the  circumstances  I  have  had  only  at  second- 
hand, but  thaCs  a  medical  fact,  and  I  can  speak 
of  it  with  certainty.  This  mad  cousin  of  yours 
too  has  left  the  country,  has  been  traced  into  a 
ship  bound  for  the  Indies,  whither  he  has  gone 
under  the  agreeable  idea  tliat  his  rival  is  dis- 
posed of.  There  wdl  be,  therefore,  no  neces- 
sity to  ask  him  to  the  wedding,  or  otherwise  in- 
convenience yourselves  by  his  attentions.  To 
suffer  this  poor  lunatic  to  blight  the  life  of  a 
man  like  Carlyon  is  mere  wanton  cruelty  under 
the  guise  of  sentiment.  I  am  sure  you  will 
not  do  this.  Miss  Agnes.  I  hope,  for  the  sake 
of  your  Imputation  for  common  sense,  that  the 
second  reason  for  saying  '  no'  is  more  valid 
than  the  first." 

"Yes,  sir,  it  is,  indeed.  Forgive  mc,  Mr. 
INIartin,  but  I  can  not  pursue  this  subject 
farther,  except  to  say  this  much' — I  am  sure 
that  your  questions  have  been  dictated  by  a 
desire  to  do  good,  to  diffuse  happiness.  The 
second  objection  I  can  not  reveal.  It  is  a  fami- 
ly secret.  True,  there  was  a  time  when  it  did 
not  seem  to  me  so  insurmountable  an  obstacle, 
but  that  was  because  a  still  more  formidable  im- 
pediment— that  of  Mr.  Carlyon's  opinions — lay 
in  the  way.  Now  he  is  no  longer  a  godless 
man,  I  wonder  how  I  could  have  ever  overlook- 
ed the  barrier  of  which  I  speak." 

"There  is  madness  in  her  family,"  thought 
the  surgeon,  his  mind  recurring  to  her  cousin's 
frenzied  act ;  but  the  next  mom.ent  he  recollect- 
ed that  his  aberration  had  been  produced  by 
the  tropic  sun. 

"  ]My  dear  young  lady,"  answered  the  sur- 
geon, tenderly,  "I  have  no  intention  of  prying 
into  this  unhappy  matter ;  I  only  charge  you, 
as  you  are  a  Christian  woman,  not  to  embitter 
this  man's  life  without  great  cause.  If  any 
disgrace" — he  felt  her  shudder  through  eveiy 
limb — "has  ever  happened  to  any  of  your 
kith  and  kin — for  that  it  has  not  done  so  to 
yourself,  I  am  very  sure — see  that  it  affords 
not  only  a  reasonable  but  a  sufficient  ground 
on  which  to  reject  a  brave  man's  love.  I  do 
not  say  that  there  may  not  be  such  a  disgrace  ; 
it  is  my  opinion,  however,  that  you  should  re- 
veal it,  whatever  it  is,  to  his  own  ears,  and  then 
abide  his  decision." 

"I  coidd  never  tell  him,  sir,"  replied  Agnes, 
in  half-choked  tones.  "It  reflects  upon  the 
memory  of  one  that  is  most  near  and  dear  to 
me,  and  who  is  gone  to  his  rest  after  long  years 
of  trouble." 

"Poor dear!  poor  dear!"  ejaculated  the  sur- 
geon, tenderly  ;   "  I  have  only  then  one  alter- 


to 


CARLTON'S  YEAR. 


native  to  propose.  However  sad  may  be  this 
secret  you  speak  of,  however  insuperable  a 
difficulty  it  may  present  to  your  eyes,  you  can 
not  gauge  this  man's  love  and  say  it  is  not 
sufficient  to  overcome  it.  Since  you  shrink 
from  speaking  with  him  on  the  subject,  write 
the  whole  matter  out,  and  let  me  jtlace  it — 
sealed — in  liis  own  hands.  He  will  certainly 
make  no  bad  use  of  the  information  ;  at  the 
worst,  it  will  remain  with  him  a  sacred  trust. 
If  it  strikes  him  as  it  does  you,  you  need  never 
see  one  another  any  more.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  writes  back,  '  Come,'  that  will  be  a 
sign  that  he  prizes  you  at  a  value,  from  which 
nothing  can  materially  detract.  See,  here  we 
are  at  our  journey's  end.  Let  me  exact  this 
promise  of  you.  Let  me  call  for  this  writing 
in  a  few  hours,  for  such  a  matter  is  best  done 
at  Once,  and  done  with.  Say  '  yes,'  my  dear 
Miss  Agnes,  I  adjure  you.  At  least  let  this 
man's  future  life  be  marred  by  no  misunder- 
standing, no  meaningless  repulse.  It  is  better 
for  a  man  to  be  denied  than  to  be  evaded." 

"I  will  do  as  you  request,  Mr.  Martin," 
said  Agnes,  sighing;  "but  you  do  not  know 
the  heaviness  of  the  task  you  lay  upon  me. 
The  paper  shall  be  ready  within  two  hours." 

"That's  a  brave,  good  girl,"  said  the  surgeon, 
with  affectionate  earnestness.  "I  shall  call 
for  it  myself,  and  it  will  never  leave  my  hands 
till  it  reaches  his.  God  bless  and  strengthen 
you,  my  dear." 

The  next  moment  the  door  of  her  lodging 
opened,  and  Agnes  hurried  in. 

' '  Now,  if  I  were  in  that  fellow  Carlyon's 
place,"  mused  Mr.  Martin  to  himself,  as  he 
turned  away,  "  I  would  marry  that  very  charm- 
ing young  woman,  no  matter  what  might  be 
urged  against  her  family,  and  although  both 
her  parents  had  perished  on  the  gallows." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

CUTTING      THE      KNOT. 

"When  you  have  read  this,  write  to  me," 
were  the  words  which  Agnes  had  appended  to 
the  secret  statements  confided  according  to 
promise  to  Mr.  Martin's  care,  for  Carlyon  ;  and 
now  it  was  the  second  day,  and  yet  she  had  re- 
ceived no  answer.  For  the  first  and  last  time 
in  her  life  she  had  written  "  Agnes  Vane,"  at 
the  foot  of  what  was  an  honest  narration  of  her 
unhappy  fatlier's  misfortune.  The  old  man 
had  not  concealed  it  from  her,  although  her 
cousin  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  be  had. 
The  threat,  therefore,  employed  by  Richard  of 
revealing  his  uncle's  secret  had  been  quite  with- 
out weight  so  far  as  Agnes  was  concerned,  how- 
ever it  may  have  told  with  respect  to  others. 
But  Mr.  Crawford,  naturally  enough,  had  esti- 
mated his  nephew's  worth,  or  rather  the  want 
of  it,  by  the  baseness  of  the  menace,  and  had 
judged  his  unfitness  to  become  her  husband  by 
the  very   means  which  the  young  man  relied 


upon  to  insure  his  acceptance.  Whether  right- 
ly or  not,  we  can  not  tell.  To  secure  Agnes 
for  himself,  it  was  true  that  the  wretched  youth 
had  stooped  to  every  baseness,  and  even  to 
crime  ;  but  with  relation  to  all  other  things  he 
had  behaved  himself  with  honor  and  probity. 
Strange  as  the  comparison  may  seem,  the  love 
of  her  was  to  him  like  the  one  vice,  such  as 
gambling  or  drinking,  which  so  often  deforms 
an  otherwise  noble  character.  If  Richard 
Crawford  had  been  her  accepted  lover  from  the 
first,  perhaps  he  would  never  have  strayed  from 
the  broad  road  of  right. 

By  reflections  upon  this  matter,  however, 
Agnes  was  not  disturbed.  She  was  filled  with 
remorse  at  having  revealed,  even  to  one  single 
person,  that  disgi-ace  which  her  dead  father  had 
been  so  solicitous  to  conceal.  True,  slie  could 
not  have  permitted  this  man  to  marry  her  while 
the  secret  remained  untold ;  but  why  had  she 
not  sacrificed  her  own  wishes  (for  she  no  longer 
attempted  to  conceal  from  herself  that  her  heart 
was  another's)  to  so  sacred  a  trust  ?  Had  not 
Carlyon  himself  set  her  an  example  in  presen-- 
ing  his  own  father's  memory  from  obloquy? 
How  weak  and  wicked  she  had  been !  No 
wonder  Carlyon  had  sent  her  no  reply  ;  offend- 
ed, no  doubt,  less  by  the  nature  of  the  familv 
disgrace  than  by  her  own  ^elfish  disclosure  of 
it.  And  yet,  surely  he  might  have  written  to 
her  too,  even  if  it  had  been  that  word  "No," 
with  which  a  year  ago  she  had  driven  him  from 
his  home  at  Mellor. 

She  could  not  read  ;  she  could  not  work  ;  she 
could  only  sit  with  her  hands  before  her  and 
think,  and  think,  and  listen.  Was  that  the 
postman's  knock  ?  No.  And  j-et  it  could 
hardly  be  any  visitor.  Nobody  had  called  upon 
her  since  she  had  been  in  town,  for  scarcely 
any  of  her  acquaintance  knew  of  her  being  there. 
Doubtless,  this  arrival  concerned  the  lodgers 
who  occupied  the  dining-room  floor.  Any 
thing  that  diverted  her  mind  from  its  present 
melancholy,  even  for  a  moment,  was  welcome, 
and  she  listened  with  attention.  There  must 
be  many  visitors — more  than  one  or  two — to 
judge  by  the  time  that  they  took  to  enter  the 
house.  Why,  too,  should  they  delay  in  the  hall 
instead  of —  But  now  it  was  certain  that  they 
were  ascending,  although  very  deliberately,  to 
the  drawing-room  in  which  she  sat.  The  slow- 
ness of  their  movements  and  the  frequent  halts 
that  they  seemed  to  make,  suggested  tliat  one 
among  them,  at  least,  must  be  very  old  or  feeble 
— as  old  as  her  poor  father,  perhaps,  whose  se- 
cret she  had  so  fruitlessly  betrayed.  The  door 
opened,  and  in  walked  Mr.  Martin,  with  a  gaunt 
man,  very  white  and  shrunken,  leaning  heavily 
ujion  his  arm. 

"Mr.  Carlyon!"  cried  she,  with  an  involun- 
tary cry  of  wonder. 

"The  same,  miss,  and  no  other,"  returned 
the  surgeon,  quietly  ;  "  and  he  would  be  obliged 
to  you  if  you  would  offer  him  a  chair." 

In  the  extremity  of  her  astonisliment  she  had 
forgotten  how  much  this  exertion  nnist  have 


CARLYON'S  YEAR. 


87 


cost  the  inviilid ;  but  in  a  moment  slie  was  her- 
self again,  and  had  wlieclcd  round  the  sofa  and  ' 
arranged  the  cushions  as  she  had  done  so  often  ; 
for  him  in  his  own  chamber.  | 

"I    thought    it  was   better,    Agnes,    that   I; 
should  come  and  sec  you  myself — " 

"/  didn't;  mind  that,"  interrupted  the  sur- 
geon.     "  I  thouglit  it  was  madness." 

'•Better  to  tell  you  wlint  I  had  to  say  by 
word  of  mouth,  than  to  offer  any  explanation 
by  letter,''  continued  Carlyon,  feebly.  "You 
must  have  thought  me  very  brutal,  Agnes,  these 
last  two  days." 

"  Brutal,  Mr.  Carlyon  !  Why  so  ?  I  blamed 
myself,  but  not  so  «iuch  as  I  do  now,  seeing 
tiiat  I  have  caused  you  to  be  so  imprudent  as  to 
venture  hither." 

"I  should  have  come  yesterday,  if  Mr.  Mar- 
tin would  have  let  me  out ;  he  kept  me  prisoner 
against  my  will,  until  I  threatened  to  apply  for 
a  writ  of  habeas  corpus.  Sit  down  here, 
Agnes,  close  by  me,  for  my  voice  is  weak." 

"  Mendacious  hypocrite,"  muttered  the  sur- 
geon ;  "he  bawled  at  my  coachman  to  drive 
faster,  until  I  expected  the  man  would  have 
given  me  warning  on  the  spot." 

Agnes  took  her  seat,  as  Carlyon  requested, 
very  white  and  quiet.  He  had  come,  she 
thought,  like  a  brave  man  as  he  was,  to  tell  her 
face  to  face,  that  he  was  too  proud  to  marry  a 
woman  who,  because  of  a  family  disgrace,  bore 
a  name  that  was  not  her  own.  How  rightly 
was  she  about  to  be  punished  for  her  selfish 
conduct ! 

"Our  excellent  friend,  Mr.  Martin  yonder, 
lias  placed  in  my  hands  a  document  written  by 
yourself,  Agnes,  and  relating  to  certain  pi-ivate 
affaii"s  connected  with  your  family.  He  did  so 
with  a  good  motive,  I  am  sure ;  but  he  did  not 
know  me. " 

"It  was  I  myself  who  told  him  to  give  it  to 
you,  Jlr.  Carlyon." 

"I  know  it.  It  was  not  unnatural,  perhaps, 
that  one,  with  so  delicate  a  sense  of  duty, 
placed  in  your  position,  sliould  have  done  so. 
Othenvise,  and  supposing  you  had  been  in  his 
place,  you  would  have  known  me  better;  you 
would  have  said,  as  I  hope  and  believe,  '  John 
Carlyon  will  never  read  it.'  Here  it  is,  Agnes, 
with  the  seals  unbroken.  If  the  secret  it  con- 
tains be  any  misfortune  which  it  is  within  my 
power  to  remedy,  or  mitigate ;  if  it  be  any  sor- 
row, which  may  be  lightened  to  yourself  by  an- 
other's sympathy,  I  will  hear  it  from  your  lips. 
If  not,  let  it  remain  unrevealed.  Of  whatever 
nature  it  may  be,  the  knowledge  of  it  could  no 
more  weaken  my  devoted  love  for  you,  my  ar- 
dent hope  (presumptuous  as  it  seems)  that  you 
may  become  my  wife,  Agnes,  than  some  small 
stream  of  brackish  water  newly  set  a  flowing 
could  alter  the  saltness  of  the  sea  into  which  it 
runs  ;  but  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  it.  If  the  tell- 
ing of  a  secret  be  the  proof  of  some  women's 
love,  let  the  keeping  of  one  be  yours  for  me. 
Take  it ;  burn  it.  And  when  it  is  burned,  be  sure 
that  the  evidence  of  its  existence  is  thereby  not 


more  surely  destroyed  than  any — the  least  mis- 
giving of  what  it  may  have  been  has  vanished 
from  my  own  bosom.  Agnes,  dear  Agnes,  you 
have  blessed  me  beyond  all  that  words  can  tell ; 
but  I  still  ask  for  more.  Say,  tell  me  :  Will 
you  be  my  wife  ?" 

There  was  no  verbal  response ;  but  neverthe- 
less she  answered  witli  her  lips. 

"Really,"  murmured  Mr.  Martin,  after  he 
had  stared  discreetly  out  of  the  window  for  a 
considerable  period,  "  I  am  hanged  if  they  have 
not  forgotten  I  am  in  the  room. — JNIr.  Carlyon," 
exclaimed  he,  aloud,  "I  have  got  other  patients 
liesides  yourself  and  this  young  lady  (for  I  con- 
sider that  I  have  prescribed  for  her,  and  with 
considerable  success),  and  I  can't  afford  to  keep 
my  horses  standing  still  here  all  day.  It  is  time 
for  us  to  be  off.  My  dear  !Miss  Agnes,  whom  I 
beg  leave  to  most  heartily  congratulate,  you  can 
not  use  your  newly-acquired  supremacy  to  bet- 
ter purpose  than  to  order  this  sick  man  home." 

"My  good  friend,"  remonstrated  Carlyon, 
coolly,  "  I  tell  you  what  you'd  better  do,  if  you 
really  have  got  other  patients  to  attend  to.  Go 
and  see  them,  by  all  means,  and  then  come  back 
and  call  for  me.  I  assure  you  I  feel  much  better 
since  the  morning,  and  in  perfectly  safe  hands." 

So  the  good  surgeon,  laughing  very  merrily, 
left  patient  and  nurse  together,  and  started  off 
on  his  professional  round. 

"He  looks  quite  another  man  already," 
chuckled  ]\Ir.  Martin,  when  he  found  himself 
alone  in  his  brougham,  with  its  pockets  stored 
with  cases  of  horrid  im])lements  ;  "  ujion  my  life 
there  may  be  something  in  physicians'  prescrip- 
tions after  all.  I  never  saw  such  a  satisfactory 
result  from  a  mere  external  application  of  lip- 
salve before." 


CHAPTER  XXXIIl. 

all's  well  tiiat  ends  well. 

The  first  person  to  whom  Carlyon  wrote  to 
tell  of  his  approaching  marriage  with  Agnes 
was  sister  Meg  ;  and  she  wrote  him  back  a  letter, 
filled  half  with  good  wishes  and  half  with  good 
advice,  the  last  solely  with  reference  to  the 
economy  of  a  household  ;  "for,"  said  she,  "  with 
respect  to  your  spiritual  welfare  it  is  impossible 
that  you  can  have  a  better  teacher  than  she 
whom  you  have  chosen ;  whereas,  as  respects 
pecuniary  expenditure,  she  is  culpably  lavish." 

To  IMr.  Carstairs,  the  convalescent,  out  of  the 
exuberance  of  his  spirits,  could  not  help  sending 
a  mourning  card  with, 

JOHN    CAULYON. 
Friends  will  please  accept  the  intimation, 

on  one  side  ;  and  on  the  other, 

Of  hie  marriage  in  September  next. 

In  return,  he  received  the  most  disinterested 
con;,'ratulations  from  tlic  kind-hearted  doctor, 
and  a  budget  of  country  news.      "I  am  sorry 


8S 


CARLYON'S  YEAK. 


to  say,"  wrote  he,  "that  these  insatiable  sands 
of  ours  liave  been  devouring  more  victims. 
Old  Stci)hen  Millet  and  his  son  were  both  lost 
some  nights  ago  tluring  a  dense  fog ;  the  former, 
they  say,  was  not  himself — having  fallen  of  late 
more  than  ever  into  his  old  habits — and  that 
William  perished  in  the  attempt  to  get  him 
home.  Heaven  only  knows  how  it  was;  but  a 
nobler  or  more  self-sacrificing  soul  than  that 
young  man  never  drew  breath.  I  have  just  seen 
them  laid  in  the  same  grave.  There  is  another 
vacancy  among  us  here,  which,  in  my  opinion, 
is  by  no  means  to  be  so  regretted.  Mrs.  New- 
man and  I  agreed  to  keep  it  to  ourselves  while 
Miss  Agnes  was  in  trouble  about  other  matters ; 
but  there  is  no  reason  why  she  should  not  be  told 
now.  The  second  morning  after  her  mistress 
left  Mcllor,  Cubra  suddenly  disappeared.  As 
she  never  goes  upon  the  sands,  I  did  not  appre- 
hend any  danger  from  that  source ;  after  much 
inquiry,  I  came,  to  the  conclusion  that  she  had 
been  sent  for  by  that  unhappy  young  man  to 
accompany  him  in  his  flight ;  and  on  application 
to  the  shipping-office,  I  find  that  a  person  an- 
swering to  her  description  embarked  in  the  same 
vessel  as  liichard  Crawford.  Thus,  the  poor 
old  woman  has  been  faithful  to  her  young 
master  to  the  last,  according  to  her  lights,  sad 
will-of-the-wisps  though  they  were.  I  am  glad 
for  both  your  sakes  that  they  can  now  lead  nei- 
ther him  nor  her  so  dangerously  astray ;  and  for 
poor  Richard's  sake,  that  he  has  some  one  who 
•will  cleave  to  him  whithersoever  he  has  gone." 

Poor  Richard !  That  was  how  Carlyon  and  his 
wife  always  spoke  of  her  unhappy  cousin — 
never  with  anger  or  uncharitableness.  To  be- 
lieve him  mad  was  the  most  consoling  creed 
which  they  could  hold. 

The  newly-married  couple  did  not  make  their 
home  at  Mellor.  There  was  an  association  con- 
nected with  that  place  that  made  it  painful  to 
Carlyon  to  do  so.  Though  he  was  far  from  en- 
tertaining an  un-Christian  despair  respecting 
any  man's  future,  though  the  more  be  experi- 
enced of  God's  love  and  mercy  (and  he  experi- 
enced much)  the  less  was  he  prone  to  plumb 
their  depth,  and  say  "  It  ends  here — or  here  ;" 
yet,  he  could  not  now  regard  that  tombstone  in 
the  church-yard  with  "Gone  to  join  the  majority" 
upon  it,  with  the  old  sardonic  indifference.  It 
was  curious  enough  that  that  should  be  the  bit- 
terest drop  in  Carlyon's  cup  after  all ;  but  so  it 
was. 

He  and  Agnes  made  their  home  in  another 


part  of  the  country ;  but  paid  a  yearly  visit  to 
Mrs.  Newman,  now  installed  at  Woodlces,  which 
he  had  settled  upon  her — the  gloomy  place  hav- 
ing fortunately  found  no  purchaser — for  life. 
She  gave  one  dinner-party  in  their  honor  on 
each  of  these  occasions ;  but  it  cost  her  a  great 
deal — not  in  money,  indeed,  for  it  was  the  re- 
verse of  an  expensive  entertainment,  but  in  many 
a  mental  pang. 

Robin  and  the  rest  of  the  household  suffered 
for  it  when  the  Carlyons  went.  Having  at  last 
reduced  her  expenditure  to  a  minimum,  this 
good  lady  determined  to  give  the  public  the 
benefit  of  her  experience,  and  has  occupied  her 
spare  time  of  late  in  composing  those  well-known 
and  useful  little  volumes,  "How  to  live  on 
forty  pounds  a  year — and  passing  well ;"  and 
"  Enough  is  as  good  as  a  Feast ;  or  how  to  make 
a  leg  of  mutton  last  a  week." 

Carlyon  put  in  his  protesi  once  or  twice  for 
Robin's  sake  ;  but  sister  Meg  only  replied,  "  My 
dear  John,  you  have  no  idea  what  that  old  man 
eats,  although  he  has  not  a  tooth  in  his  head." 
Where,  however,  her  brother  made  a  resolute 
stand  and  carried  his  point,  was  in  the  stable 
arrangements.  Red  Berild  had  his  two  feeds 
of  corn  per  diem,  while  at  Woodlees,  in  spite  of 
all  her  protestations ;  and  generally  received 
them,  scarcely  less  from  affection  than  for  se- 
curity, from  Agnes's  own  hand. 

As  years  went  on,  two  little  children — first  a 
girl,  then  a  boy — began  to  hold  as  the  highest 
treat  a  ride  upon  the  good  old  horse,  which,  they 
were  told,  had  saved  dear  mamma's  life  years 
ago  from  the  hungry  tide.  There  is  no  fear  of 
the  faithful  creature's  not  being  affectionately 
cared  for  in  his  old  age,  even  though  his  master 
should  die  before  him.  As  to  that,  John  Car- 
lyon was  no  worse  when  we  last  heard  of  him 
than  during  that  period  when  Jlr.  Carstairs  put 
so  exact  a  limit  to  his  days.  That  gentleman, 
however,  holds  to  his  own  opinion  that  the  squire 
ought  to  have  died  years  and  years  ago,  and 
that  he  owes  his  present  existence  only  to  the 
heretical  nature  of  his  disposition. 

"  He  flew  in  the  face  of  Providence  in  his 
youth,"  says  he,  "and  having  been  converted 
from  that  error,  he  now  flies  in  the  lace  of  Sci- 
ence." 

He  has  the  magnanimity'  to  add,  however, 
"Long  may  he  fly." 

And  all  who  are  acquainted  with  John  Car., 
lyon  as  he  now  is,  have  good  cause  to  say 
Amen. 


THE    END, 


6\ 


1 


